


What the Water Gave Me

by icygrace



Series: I forgive you, I forgive me [1]
Category: Olympics RPF, Sports RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Kid Fic, M/M, Separation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:50:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 106,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icygrace/pseuds/icygrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if the kids are here, this place could never be home. Home is their house. With Michael. Home is wherever (whenever) they’re all together.</p><p>---</p><p>Michael can see the empty spaces where Ryan fits, where no one but Ryan fits.</p><p>---</p><p>Or a separation and what comes before and after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's No Place Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt about married-with-kids!Phlochte separating on the LJ comm olympickids.
> 
> Title from "What the Water Gave Me" by Florence + the Machine.

 

Ryan was going to hang up his Speedo after Rio.

But after changing up training and adding some new events, he did better than anybody expected. Much better. Who the hell peaks at 32, does better after 30 than in his teens and twenties? Ryan fucking Lochte. He kicked ass in Rio.

The road to Rio wasn’t easy on his family, but he made it worth the sacrifices. London had been a bust (yeah, yeah 5 medals, but not the ones he wanted – and he could’ve had 6, anyway). He lived up to the hype in Rio. And it wasn’t just because Michael wasn’t in the next lane anymore. He did better BECAUSE of Mike, because he trained with Mike, because Mike was a better sport than anybody expected and got in the pool with him and pushed him every damn day. Ryan owed a lot to Michael. A lot.

(Lately Ryan wonders if he should’ve said “thanks, man” a little more often, told him how much he loved training with him, if he should’ve showed he meant it – done things to show Michael how much he meant, how he meant _everything_.)

So four more years sounded like a good plan. Istanbul 2020. If Dara could keep going into her _40s_ , he could go through his 30s. He was still having fun. The kids would be old enough to have fun too, and remember it. If he got lucky, he might actually end up with more medals than that Russian gymnast chick. Not more than Mike (probably no one ever would), but still awesome. The sponsors loved it. Jeah man!

But if he’d known what going for Istanbul would cost him . . . no jeah would’ve been the understatement of the fucking century, man.

Things suck right now. Ryan’s making do. He stayed in a motel the first couple days until he found a real estate lady who got him a furnished three-bedroom fast. (Not cheap. At all. Thank God he was fucking loaded by now or the kids’ college funds would be screwed.)

It’s not home.

No little ticks on the wall from measuring the twins to see how tall they are – Ollie insists he’ll be taller than his dads someday. (“Yeah right, Gator,” Ryan laughs every time. “We’ll see. Maybe if you drink your milk and eat your vegetables,” Michael tells him.)

No handprints in the kitchen from the time he’d turned his back _just one second_ while Lo was finger-painting.

No toys underfoot, no kid-sized swim goggles dropped on the coffee table or bedazzled tutus and leotards hanging off the doorknob.

5 days out of the week, no Lo demanding they go over her ballet positions, no “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, _watch_ ” and no little girl hands (with the pale pink nails he polished himself) yanking him along. 

No Ollie laughing till he couldn’t breathe during a tickle fight or chattering about his latest adventures at camp and the Y while they splash around in the backyard pool.

Because Ryan doesn’t even _have_ a pool here.

He didn’t bring much stuff, either. Just threw things in a suitcase and bolted. Not even his medals. They weren’t worth shit now. He won’t set foot in the house anytime soon, so he makes do.

In the meantime, he’s doing the best he can. He has a lot of time to think when he comes home from practice every day, but all he does is try not to think too much because it _hurts_ – his head, his heart, he just wants to forget for a little while, but it’s impossible when he opens his eyes and all he can see is that he’s alone in an empty house that isn’t his.

What makes it all even harder is Ollie and Lo. He misses them like hell. But whatever actually happened, Ryan is the one that left, so it’s his fault in the kids’ eyes, even if Ollie and Lo never said it in words. _Ryan_ ruined things, ruined their family. He’s only seen them on the weekends, so they can stay at home and stick to their routines and things can be as normal as possible for them in this fucked-up situation. But already there’s a huge fucking distance.

Conor and Elizabeth have dropped the kids off on Friday night and picked them up Sunday afternoon for the past few weeks. (They’re better friends than Ryan deserves. Most people would’ve given him a kick in the ass and told him and Michael to man up, damn it, and face each other for the two minutes it takes to drop the kids off. But they understand he isn’t ready.)

Before, Ollie and Lo told Ryan everything. Now they clam up. Hugs and kisses? Not so much, not so free. You can’t make up for missing out on 5 days in 2 and that _hurts_. Like hell.

Ryan can handle being second-best-forever to the Greatest Olympian of All Time in the pool. He can handle people that don’t know them assuming the worst about him. He can handle their inner circle assuming their separation is his fault because the “hair-eating moron” is too stupid to know how good he has it with the perfect Great American Hero. (“When you ASSUME, you make an ASS out of U and ME,” Mom always says. But maybe other people’s moms don’t.)

What kills Ryan is being second-best for Ollie and Lo. But that’s just how it is.

Maybe that’s how it always has been, though. Before, Ryan was the “awesome” parent, the cool parent, the fun parent – but Michael has always been the _real_ parent. The good parent, the one who does the hard stuff, the shitty stuff nobody ever likes you for. The one who disciplines them, who takes them to the doctor for shots and gives them their shitty-tasting medicine when they’re sick, who makes them eat their fruits and vegetables.

Ryan’s not stupid. He knows things can’t be a party when Ollie and Lo come to visit – come to fucking visit. (Like it’s a vacation, like he isn’t part of their real life. Like he’s not their _father_.) So he fills the fridge with baby carrots (easier for little hands) and grapes and strawberries and _arugula_ (the fuck?) and lean meats and all kinds of Dr. Nathan-recommended rabbit food “because it’s good for you, Lauren.” He tries to stick to their regular bedtime and the rules about how much TV they can watch and what kinds of shows and how long they can use the computer. No fast food. Only two cookies. Everything neater and cleaner than he thought he could keep it. But they expect fun and junk food and a little mess and rule-breaking (“but don’t tell Dad, jeah?”) because he could be the good cop when Michael played bad cop. Before, there was a balance.

But not anymore. The kids (well, mostly Lo – Ollie’s bummed, poor kid, but he behaves) throw tantrums because things are different, because everything’s wrong, because Ryan’s not himself anymore, not really. He can’t be.

But he’s not Michael enough either. So every time Lo cries that she wants Dad at bedtime and pushes him away, hugging her pillow to her chest, it’s like somebody fucking stabbing him. (Not that he’s ever been stabbed, man that would suck, but he knows that’s what it’d be like.) And not getting Ollie’s eggs right (“A little runny, but not too runny, Daddy!”) at breakfast . . . When Ryan scrapes the ruined eggs onto his own plate, they taste more like failure than the 200 free in London.

The kids are miserable when they’re here. It sucks. The house sucks. The quiet sucks. His stupid split times suck. You think with nothing better to do, without his family 5 days of the week (and never ever his _whole_ family, maybe never again), he might be doing okay in the pool. But _everything_ sucks now. Not like before. Ryan misses before. He really fucking does.  Lying in his too-big too-empty too-neat (too-everything and not-enough anything) bed at night, eyes screwed shut, like he’s Dorothy in her stupid blue dress (and great sparkly shoes, he kind of wants sneakers like that and he’s designing some Mary Janes for Lo just like them) in that dumb movie with the weird-ass munchkins. _There’s no place like home_. _There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home_.

Even if the kids are here, this damn rental could never be home.

Home is _their_ house. With Michael. Home is _wherever_ Michael is. Home is wherever (whenever) they’re all together.

(The thought that he might never go home again scares the shit out of him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To give credit where credit is due: The “hair-eating moron” line comes from a fic written by an anonymous author and the nickname “Gator” comes from lillyluna. Thanks to mugglemiranda for the prompt, encouragement and inspiration re: weekends at Ryan's.


	2. There's No Place Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael can see the empty spaces where Ryan fits, where no one but Ryan fits.

 

Normally, the kids would be tired out by now. Ollie would've spent a couple hours in the pool or horsing around with Ryan.  
  
Normally, Lo would've practiced her ballet, gone over every bit of her latest lesson. With Ryan.  
  
Normally, that would be Michael’s time to kick back and relax or Skype his mother or one of his sisters. Sometimes, he’d go run an errand he hadn’t gotten to earlier in the week.   
  
Normally, Ollie and Lo would’ve already had their baths. With Ryan.   
  
Normally, that gave Michael the time to put away the leftovers and wash the dishes and tidy up the kitchen. Usually he cooked but even when Ryan cooked (he _could_ follow a recipe and anyway, he knew an impressive repertoire of Cuban dishes by heart thanks to Ike and his grandmother), Michael handled cleanup so Ryan could cover bath time.   
  
Normally after that, Ollie and Lo would be clean and tired out – half-asleep already – and would only need a quick bedtime story from Michael and a kiss on the forehead apiece from both their dads.  
  
It works.   
  
Normally. Not anymore. Nothing works. Nothing is normal anymore. Ryan is gone and his absence hangs in the air, as tangible as his empty chair at the dining room table and the kitchen island bar stool he no longer sits on (barefoot, as always) to eat his breakfast every morning.   
  
Michael can see the empty spaces where Ryan fits, where no one _but_ Ryan fits. (No matter how many times his mother reiterates her kindly meant offers to fly out to Gainesville to help him “because I know how hard it is to be a single parent, Michael. I hope this is temporary, but that’s what each of you is when it’s your turn with the twins.”) The routines gone off-track because Ryan isn’t here to play his part.  
  
But tonight Michael's first feeling isn’t sorrow. It’s frustration. The twins are being _impossible_. It’s bedtime but they’re wide awake and fighting it. Ollie won’t sit still. And that’s not Ollie’s fault, not really – he didn’t get to play out all his extra energy tonight because Michael was too busy trying to go over Lo’s steps for her upcoming recital to supervise him in the yard.  
  
Not that he blames Lo either. Her ballet teacher had called him a couple days ago, telling him, “Mr. Phelps, Lauren’s not herself lately. She is sullen and her footwork is sloppy. That’s unusual for her. Honestly, I wonder if she’s practicing her dancing outside of class. Is anything wrong that I should know about? Anything I could help with to get her back on track? She is a wonderful dancer and I would hate to see that go to waste.” Michael had briefly explained that he and Ryan had separated and that Lauren was having a very hard time adjusting. Madame Anderson had made a sympathetic noise at that and suggested gently – very gently – that Lauren (“and her twin brother – Oliver, yes?”) might benefit from seeing a counselor, to help with the transition because it’s _never_ easy for children.  
  
(Don’t I know it, Michael had wanted to tell Madame Anderson, remembering his father and his childhood self and how hard it had been to have their family of five shrink to four.   
  
He’d thought it was hardly easier – maybe harder in some ways – for Ryan, at 26, to have seen his own parents’ divorce. A whole _lifetime_ of being a unit, a family, down the drain. That must’ve been so weird for him. It’s even weirder to realize that they’ve never really talked about it.  
  
But it wasn’t something Michael had wanted to dwell on at that moment. The thought that they were both products of broken homes had rubbed him the wrong way, weighed him down with something like despair when he asked himself what that meant for their chances of making things work. Neither of them is Fred Phelps – his own lifelong fears and Ryan’s public admission, long before they became a family, that his worst fear is being a bad father aside – but that doesn’t mean they can’t mess things up, mess _Ollie and Lo_ up, in different ways. The thought terrified him, _terrifies_ him.)   
  
Shaking his head to clear his wandering thoughts, Michael had swallowed hard, nodded – even though Madame Anderson couldn’t possibly see him through the phone – and thanked her for her advice.  
  
Michael has his work cut out for him. He’s stunned to discover that working with Lo on her dancing is one of the hardest things he’s ever done. Day in and day out, he’s reminded how clumsy he is on land, how he’s really only good at one thing. (And not terrible at golfing, either, but that’s going to help his daughter’s ballet about as much as his ability to swim will.)  
  
Michael feels himself tense every time he sees Lo’s small fists balled up with frustration against the barre Ryan had installed for her to practice, her tiny nails bare and bitten to the quick, hair disheveled because _he_ hasn’t spent hours watching YouTube videos and taking lessons from Elizabeth, from Kristin and Megan and Whitney and Hillary and even Annie Chandler-Grevers (not to mention _both_ their mothers) on Skype on how to create the perfect ballet bun or braids. Single braid, two plaits, French, whatever Lo could ever think to want. And her tutus and leotards are a mess because Michael has no idea what settings he’s supposed to use to wash them and dry them and he doesn’t know enough about proper ballet attire to replace them. He might actually have to call Ryan to talk it over, but he’s not sure he has it in him yet to have a conversation beyond pure logistics (pick-ups, drop-offs and other scheduling issues) relating to the twins. He can probably get Madame Anderson’s input because, after all, she _does_ want to help Lo.  
  
(And if the ballet gear she suggests isn’t bright and bedazzled like the stuff Lo secretly loves to practice in at home – no matter how many times she rolls her eyes and insists, “Daddy, those are _silly_ ,” whenever Ryan triumphantly presents her with wacky new ballet clothes – well, Michael’s no Ryan. He’s got to work with what he’s got.)    
  
That night, Lo is anxious and out-of-sorts after they try yet another frustrating session of ballet practice. Michael works extra hard to tamp down his intensity here, not to push her too hard and make ballet a chore, a job, but he thinks _that_ upsets her. Ryan has always said Lo is more like Michael, dedicated to perfection even at five years old. Maybe he's right.   
  
(If she ever gets interested in swimming, Michael will have to keep her away from Bob or else he’ll put her on her way to Greatest Olympian of All Time status before she’s even in middle school. And that’s not something Michael wants for either of his kids. He wants them to be normal, at least as long as they possibly can be.)   
  
Ryan, who is otherwise the most laid-back guy in the world (to the point of frustrating the hell out of Michael, who has to play the heavy to Ryan's funnest-bestest-dad-ever nine times out of ten), channels their daughter’s intensity into something stunning that Michael just can’t replicate and it _kills_ him that he can’t do that for her and her dancing is suffering because of it.  
  
To make things worse, Ollie and Lo are both hopped up on sugar because Michael tried to make things better (and in doing so, made things ten times worse) by letting them have soda _and_ more dessert as a special treat. He doesn’t _always_ have to be the bad cop, especially now without Ryan to play good cop. Lately, he hasn’t been.  
  
Ollie, laid-back little guy that he is, is ultimately easier to get into the bath. (When he’s not frustrated to pieces over this crappy “new normal” and his ever-shittier parenting, Michael worries about Ollie because Ollie hasn’t really expressed his feelings about the separation. It’s like he feels like he has to make up for Lo’s misbehavior and bad temper, like he has to make things easier on his dads.) Once they’re done, Michael hopes that playing with Carter (poor Carter misses Ryan almost as much as Michael does, but apparently the rental doesn’t allow dogs) and Herman will be soothing enough to calm Ollie down for bed by the time he’s done with Lo.  
  
Lo, on the other hand, sasses him (Ryan’s word for it) and stomps all the way to the tub. Inexplicably (to Michael’s horror), her eyes fill with tears when she gets there. He kneels down next to her, facing her as he rubs her back and asks what’s wrong. The tears start trickling down then, ever so slowly. “There’s – there’s too many bubbles! Daisy might get lost!” Lo sputters. (Daisy is her rubber duck, named after Disney’s lady duck.) “There’s _always_ too many bubbles. Daddy _never_ puts in that many bubbles.” Michael rubs her back some more, not knowing what to say.   
  
Apparently it gets to be too much for her because she starts sobbing in earnest, falling into him with her little arms tight around his neck, crying into his shoulder that she just wants Daddy. If his heart hadn’t already been broken, it would’ve shattered to pieces right then.  
  
“Oh baby girl, I’m sorry. I'm so sorry,” Michael whispers into her hair, so quiet he’s not sure Lo can hear him over her own tears.  
  
Somehow Ollie must hear her despite the dogs, because he runs up the stairs (no matter how many times Michael has told him not to) and into the bathroom and throws his arms around his baby sister, too. “It’s OK, LoLo, it’s OK,” Ollie murmurs.  
  
The sudden thought that Ollie feels _responsible_ for soothing his sister at this young an age is painful and right then, Michael realizes something’s got to give. Once Lo has cried herself out in his arms, with Ollie patting her comfortingly, Michael drains the tub (so much for a bath tonight) and says, “Olls, why don’t you and Lo go to her room and lie down in her bed. I’ll come in a little bit, OK?”  
  
“Sure, Dad,” Ollie says agreeably, clutching Lo’s hand. Lo nods tiredly.  
  
(At least he gets her to brush her teeth first. It’s not much, but it’s something. And after the night they’ve had, something’s better than nothing.)  
  
\---  
  
After the kids head off to Lo’s room, Michael walks downstairs. He finds what he needs on the coffee table, picking it up gingerly like it’ll bite. _Stop being a pussy_ , he tells himself. The kids _need_ this, he reminds himself. He holds the phone close, hits the voice command button and says, “Call Ryan” before he can chicken out, heart pounding in his chest as it rings.  
  
 _Go to voicemail, go to voicemail, go to voicemail_ , Michael-the-estranged-husband thinks. _Pick up, pick up, pick up, Doggy_ , thinks Michael-who-tries-to-be-a-good-father.  
  
The voice on the other end sounds sleepy-slow. “Mike? Wassamatter?” How he sounds – sounded – every morning. A split second later, Ryan’s wide-awake, “Ollie? Lo? Are they OK? Are they hurt?” Ryan’s obviously worried – mostly, they’ve been relying on e-mail to communicate. Texting is too personal, too _them_ , and hearing the other’s voice reminds them – or at least Michael – what they’re missing. They pre-schedule any necessary (2-minute) phone calls via e-mail. So Michael calling out of turn, at night, is reason to worry.  
  
Michael takes a deep breath, swallows, tries to use his words.  
  
“ _Michael_?” Ryan sounds panicked. “Fuck man, answer me, I’m freaking out here while you’re doing your creepy deep-breathing-and-no-talking thing like it’s a fucking horror movie! _Are the kids OK_?”  
  
“Yeah – no. They’re not. I mean, they’re not hurt. Not physically. But um, they – they miss you. Lo got upset at bath time. I put too many bubbles in the tub.” It sounds so stupid when he says it out loud.  
  
Ryan breathes out. Michael assumes it’s at least partly relief they’re not dealing with kidnappings or running away from home or broken bones or stitches or fevers or infectious childhood illnesses like chicken pox or – Michael's mind could keep going forever about all the terrible things he worries could possibly befall his (their, their, _always their_ ) children. If he thinks it, it can’t happen. If he thinks it, he can prevent it.  
  
“Yeah, she hates that,” Ryan says after a long pause. “Daisy will get lost if there are too many bubbles,” he continues matter-of-factly.  
  
Michael can’t understand why it’s that statement of all things that causes a painful lump in his throat. He looks to his right, to the empty space besides him on the couch where Ryan ought to be. It’s always been Ryan’s spot; he’s broken it in just right over the years like it was made of memory foam. Sometimes Michael wants to sit on that side of the couch, see if he can feel Ryan, if he can still smell him: chlorine (from the pool), cologne (Michael gave it to him years ago), honey (his grandma eats a teaspoon every day and she’s turning 98 next year, so he does too) and – inexplicably, illogically, _impossibly_ – sunshine.  
  
Michael hadn’t known sunshine had a scent until he met Ryan.  
  
“Can you – could you talk to her? I think it would help. Ollie, too. I mean, he’s not acting out like Lo, but it’s hard on him, too.”  
  
“Um. Yeah. Of course. By all means, if you think it’ll help.” Ryan hesitates. “I mean, I’m, uh, not sure, though – they’re, uh, they're pretty bummed out when they’re here with me.” The uncertainty, the _vulnerability_ in his voice makes the lump in Michael’s throat even bigger.  
  
But then Ryan clears his throat, seemingly determined not to show more weakness and that hurts even more. Ryan has always been so _open_. “I’ll call the house, then you can give them each one of the house phones and we can all talk.” Businesslike. (“We can all” – not all because Michael knows he won’t be part of the conversation and maybe not future conversations either.)  
  
“Thanks, Ry.”  
  
“Don’t thank me. They’re my kids.” (Our, our, _always_ _our_ kids.) “I’d do anything for them.”  
  
\---  
  
Michael comes to check on the kids a while after he'd handed them the phones and told them Daddy wanted to talk to them. (Lo had smiled for the first time all day and Ollie had looked a lot happier, too. They’d cuddled up closer and each twin had held up a phone to the opposite ear.) They’re fast asleep now, curled up like kittens. Their breathing is nice and even and they look more peaceful than they have in a long time.  
  
 _I’d do anything for them_. Me too, Michael thinks. And it’s time to show he means it, he resolves, taking one last look before switching on the nightlight and heading back downstairs.   
  
Maybe a goal sheet will help. He hasn’t made one since he retired. (Not even when he was helping Ryan for Rio. Ryan hates Bob-style coaching. The only reason things worked out for Rio was because it was Bowman-Hardcore-by-Michael-Phelps.) Swimming is what Michael’s good at, what he’s better than anyone at. (Well Ryan may be better _now_ , but Michael has been retired for years, and only after setting a high water mark so high nobody will have a prayer of touching it unless they bring back those stupid tech suits or something. Except . . . he cuts off that train of thought.)  
  
 _Now_ Michael needs to be better at marriage (as good at it as he's ever been at swimming) if he wants a chance to save his. Goal sheets made him The Best Swimmer in the World and The Greatest Olympian of All Time. Maybe they’ll make him a better husband, too. He wants to be. More than _anything_ , he wants his family back, his _whole_ family back together again, the empty spaces filled again for good. 

 

  



	3. One Step at a Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things haven’t worked out, not entirely. Not yet, he tells himself. But they will. They have to.

 

They’ve got each other, they’ve got two amazing kids _and_ they’ve got enough money to give them the best of everything for three lifetimes. Ryan’s finally ( _finally_ ) well and truly proven all the haters wrong. Why would he need to do anything else anymore?  
  
Rio – Michael understands Rio. Rio is about proving a point because London wasn’t been quite good enough. Michael gets it; most people wouldn’t. For all that the press shat all over Ryan for not living up to the hype, for his unfulfilled expectations after he crowed that London was his year and his Olympics, most people couldn’t comprehend 5 Olympic medals being a disappointment. Most normal people – hell, _most_ _elite swimmers_ – would just stare dumbly, stunned at the idea that 5 Olympic medals, whatever their metals, could be _not good enough_.  Not Michael. He understands, because really there were few swimmers – few athletes ever, really – in their league.  
  
But in Rio, Ryan beat the point into the damn ground. Everyone and their mother gets the point. Rio is his time, his best Olympics; he’s unquestionably the best all-around swimmer in the world now. No doubt about it. Clear as crystal.  
  
The best _active_ all-around swimmer in the world, a little disloyal voice whispers even then. _Only because_ you _hung up_ your _Speedo_ , it goads. Michael beats it down. He had a part in Rio – a big part. Rationally, he understands that – he’d been there, every single day, pushing Ryan like he hadn’t known he was capable of pushing anybody but himself.  
  
(Even though Michael really truly no longer wants to compete, is happy with his post-retirement life, enjoys parenting and coaching and promoting swimming to kids, the competitive swimmer in him – the swimmer he’ll always be in his soul – misses real racing, misses the adrenaline of competing with the best and the thrill of showing _he’s_ the best of the best, feels the absence of it all like the phantom tingles of a missing limb.)  
  
But there’s nothing for Michael to do once Ryan sets foot in the Aquatic Centre in Rio, gets on the block and into the pool. His part was done. He no longer gets to be part of the relay or in the next lane or on the medal stand. In the pool, coaches and cheerleaders and hours and days and weeks and _years_ of training stop mattering – nothing matters except the person in the pool.  
  
Ryan has always had the strength and the will and most times the speed to make it all count, but somehow _the_ time is Rio. Michael _knew_ Ryan was capable of it, of course; what stuns him is that he manages it _then_ , excels well after most people in their sport peak. Being on the sidelines during that breakthrough is a strange feeling, no matter how proud he was of Ryan, no matter how much the joy on Ryan’s face after every race warms him inside and out.  
  
During Rio, the limelight is all Ryan’s. Michael can’t pinpoint the moment and the hour, but it might be after Ryan’s new world record in the Olympic pool that people stop mentioning him first, (mostly) stop holding him up as the rival Ryan could never quite catch. Michael changed swimming and the way the world saw the sport for good. He’ll _always_ have that, he’ll always be that guy, always be the Greatest Olympian of All Time, but Ryan is no longer stuck in that guy’s shadow.  
  
And Michael is glad. (Really.)  
  
Before Rio, Ryan was a little bit uncomfortable and awkward with all eyes on him – despite how much he wanted (always wanted) the attention. Now that he doesn’t need to prove himself, to chase it, to show everybody that he deserves it ( _Hey! I’m good, I promise!_ ), Ryan’s grown into it. Yes, he’ll always sound a little less than polished (and a lot like a surfer bro, but that’s just who he is). He’s a natural ham, though, and that comes across in a way it didn’t before. Now Ryan sounds almost as smart as he actually is – like he, you know, actually did manage to get his college degree. (B.A. in sports management – more than Michael’s got. If swimming hadn’t panned out so spectacularly, Michael might be pan _handling_ now, to be honest.)  
  
Ryan is flying high like he never has before, not even when he was the first to break a world record in the post-suit era AND kicked the shit out of Michael while doing it in pretty much the most-watchable race ever. Not even the night of the 400IM in London, before he started falling short in his other events, finishing slow, falling apart while the legend he was supposed to outshine came back in fantastic form. (As the press would tell it.) Not even in the post-London media blitz that had him anywhere and everywhere, making him a household name.  
  
Given his age (and the caliber of his performance), Michael takes it for granted – they _all_ take it for granted – that Rio 2016 is Ryan’s last Olympics. He’s not a kid anymore (they _have_ two kids) and he has absolutely nothing left to prove. But when a reporter at his first post-Rio press conference asks him what he plans to do now that the Games are over, he responds, “Um, take a break. Lots of QT with my family, of course. Then, uh . . . uh, I think start training for Istanbul.”  
  
 _Why_ didn’t Ryan _say_ anything first?  
  
(Really, how much would it have mattered if Ryan had asked what Michael thought before running his mouth? Now, _after_ , Michael can admit to himself that it might not have made a difference. He probably would’ve gone along with it anyway.)  
  
Michael doesn’t say anything after the press conference because Ryan is so _excited_ about Istanbul that saying anything against it would be like kicking a puppy with sweet soft “Who, me?” Carter eyes. (Like master, like dog.)  
  
And then the whispers start to build up: 6 medals from Rio plus the 11 Ryan already had equals 17. He’s already the second-most decorated Olympic swimmer and third-most decorated Olympian of all time. He only needs two to pass Larisa Latynina. Two is definitely doable.  
  
And, well, 17 _is_ only 5 away from Michael’s career total. For any swimmer, 5 (6) medals would be a tall order. For the _36_ -year old swimmer Ryan will be when he arrives in Istanbul, it’s an impossibly tall order. Likely Ryan ties Latynina or at best splits the difference, ends up somewhere between Latynina’s total and Michael’s unless he fails to qualify at Trials or self-destructs upon arriving at the 2020 Games.  
  
(But if Dara Torres could win 5 medals at 33 and another 3 at _41_ . . . anything’s possible.  
  
She was a UF Gator, too.  
  
She’s also of Cuban descent on one side. George Lopez once joked that Ryan’s family background made his swimming unsurprising and he’d probably say the same about Dara given the opportunity.  
  
They’re definitely interesting coincidences.  
  
Not that they mean anything, of course.)  
  
But Ryan, in his own way, pushed the boundaries of Olympic possibilities as much as Michael himself.  
  
So given the very small chance that he might threaten Michael’s record, Michael would look like the worst sport, the biggest green-eyed monster on the planet, if he were to admit how much he hates the idea of another four years.  
  
There’s no going back.  
  
Michael says nothing.  
  
But he’s not helping Ryan train this time around.  
  
The resentment builds up, bit by bit, brick by brick, a day, a week, a month at a time.  
  
\---  
  
Going for Istanbul does make sense for Ryan. He’s all about the dreaming it and doing it. Like, Walt Disney, man. Always has been. This is a guy who loves the pool, loves the _water_. Always has, fell hard and fast. Literally: his first encounter was nearly drowning as a baby but even then he _loved it_. Like, literally started kicking and screaming when his dad went to pull him out of the (frigid) water. Ryan’s always been a crazy fucker. (Cullen’s story isn’t all that different; probably why they’re such good bros. Both crazy as fuck.)  
  
Ryan hasn’t changed all that much. When he stops swimming, he’s not going to go quietly. To Ryan, going out at the top of his game would be a waste. As long as he’s having fun, he’ll get in the pool.  
  
Not that he’s ever criticized Michael for retiring when he did. On the contrary, Ryan’s the first to say it was exactly the right thing to do. ( _Because now he gets to be the golden boy_ , that disloyal little voice whispers.)  
  
Michael barely had a life pre-retirement. His forays into being a real person were pretty disastrous. The bong and the DUI? Scarring. And he’d had shitty taste in women before deciding he actually liked men more. Not that his taste in men was much better. (Ryan excluded, of course.)  
  
What it really comes down to (disloyal little voices aside) is that Ryan’s a live-and-let-live kind of guy. Michael’s not, so that _laissez-faire_ attitude sometimes makes him want to clock his husband, especially when Ryan doing what he wants is stopping _him_ from having the life _he_ imagined post-Rio, the life he’s been longing for since London. A life outside the pool, where swimming doesn’t come first. For _either_ of them.  
  
But Michael had never fully understood that the pool isn’t – never has been, never _will_ be– everything to Ryan.  
  
 _“What defines me? Ryan Lochte.”_  
  
Ryan, the husband and father. Ryan the son, brother, uncle, friend. Ryan the goofball and daredevil and adrenaline-junkie. Ryan the collector and designer of crazy kicks and bling.  
  
Ryan the swimmer, Ryan the Olympian comes last.  
  
 _“I mean, the reason why I love swimming is because . . . racing.”_  
  
Years ago, the first time Michael watched that YouTube compilation, he laughed so hard he cried. Now, tears well in his eyes for an entirely different reason.  
  
Now, _after_ , he gets it. The pool doesn’t define Ryan Lochte; swimming is what he does, what he _loves_ , but it never comes first. (Never before the _people_ he loves.)  
  
\---  
  
The last straw in their separation – their-living-in-different-houses, anyway – is Ollie. _Ollie_ – not Lo, like Michael might’ve expected.  
  
Ollie tries running away from home. He only gets as far as Nathan’s, which thankfully isn’t all that far at all. Ollie hides out until Nathan realizes his son is hiding something – or rather, someone. (Poor Charlie can’t keep a secret from his father to save his life.) So they find Ollie pretty quickly.  
  
Still, Michael has never been more scared; he’s sure Ollie has singlehandedly taken 10 years off his life.  
  
Hours later, Michael’s hands still shake and Ryan is still pale under his tan. After hugging Ollie so hard it seems she might legitimately suffocate him, Lo refuses to speak to him for at least the rest of the day because “you scared me so much, Ollie, how could you? That was _mean_!” (She claims she’s _never ever_ speaking to Charlie _ever_ again.)  
  
After a considerable scolding and an equally considerable number of hugs later, Michael and Ryan manage to get the kids to bed. After checking at least four times to see that they’ve _stayed_ in bed, that everybody’s present and accounted for, Michael makes coffee, pours two mugs and fixes them both. He hands one to Ryan – one cream, three sugars, just the way he likes it (even if Nathan keeps telling him he’s going to give himself diabetes).  
  
“I’m going to book the twins a therapist, I think,” Michael says after a long, awkward silence.  
  
“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”  
  
It’s suffocating, really, the quiet. “I –”  
  
“Mike?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Ryan’s looking at a point directly over his shoulder. “After you told me, I kept thinking somebody had stolen him right out of the yard. I was so fucking _scared_. Sorry I yelled, man.” (Ryan had laid into him – _screamed_ at him, really, over the phone for “being so fucking careless and losing Ollie.”)  
  
“Me, too.” He’d given as good as he’d gotten, yelling that maybe if Ryan were _actually around_ this wouldn’t have happened. That hadn’t been fair. But he’d been _terrified_. Even now he can hardly breathe just from the memory. “I kept thinking of every awful thing that could be happening to him. I mean – I really just want to lock them both in the house and never let them out of my sight again.”  
  
“Can we do that?” Ryan asks, not un-seriously.  
  
“They have to go to school. The authorities would probably, like, arrest us if they didn’t.”  
  
“Can we bribe them?”  
  
“Unfortunately this is America, Doggy, not some banana republic, so probably not.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
There’s another long silence. Michael can hear himself inhale and exhale, can hear Ryan’s breathing too.  
  
Eventually, Ryan takes a deep breath and speaks again, “Tonight, well uh, it – it made me think. This is . . .  it’s messing with the kids, man. Ollie – _Ollie_ _ran away today_. He could’ve been kidnapped. Like really. I mean, our kids, they’re like – they’re a kidnapper’s dream. We’re rich and we’re famous, so people _know_ we’re rich.”  
  
That’s something Michael worries a lot about, actually. “I know.”  
  
“I think – um, I think I should, uh, maybe if it’s – if it’d be all right, it’d be good if I, you know, come back.”  
  
“Yeah. You should. The kids would like that.” (I’d _like that_ , he thinks.)  
  
Ryan moves back a week later. (He would do it sooner, but they agree to wait a bit so the kids don’t think they can get what they want by acting out. And by acting out, they mean scaring them half to death.)  
  
\---  
  
Things are better now that Ryan’s back.  
  
At first, the twins hang on him pretty much every waking moment. They don’t want to let Ryan out of their sight, not even to sleep or play with their friends and certainly not to go to school.  
  
As happy as Michael is to see the kids smile again, to see the light back in their eyes, their uncertainty – their belief that Daddy will disappear the moment they can’t see him or touch him – breaks his heart over and over again.  
  
As glad as he is to hear laughter in the house again, it hurts that it’s never as loud and never lasts as long as before.  
  
At first, Ollie and Lo want Ryan to do _everything_ , even the stuff that’s normally Michael’s territory. Ryan’s arms are the ones Lo wants after she has a nightmare. Ryan’s hands are the ones Ollie wants to clean and bandage his knees when he falls down horsing around and gets hurts. They even want Ryan to tell them their bedtime stories and Ryan is notoriously _terrible_ at bedtime stories. He changes them, makes stuff up because he thinks they’re too boring.  
  
(Michael’s never felt as useless as he does those first few weeks after Ryan comes back.)  
  
At first, Ollie and Lo insist on sleeping in Ryan’s bed in the guest room with him every night. Not even Michael-the-stickler-for-the-rules has the heart to tell them no.  
  
Even though the three people he loves most are back under the same roof, it’s the loneliest Michael’s ever been. He lies in bed at night, unable to sleep even as he knows they’re safe and snug together down the hall.  
  
(There’s something especially awful about being lonely for someone who’s under the same roof, someone sitting across the dinner table from you every night, someone who’s back in his usual seat on the couch beside you but might as well be a thousand miles away.)  
  
Eventually, Ryan gets Ollie and Lo to sleep in their own beds again (first together and then apart, like before), making sure to sit beside them until they’ve fallen asleep every night and to be the one to wake them up every morning.   
  
Carter’s not so jumpy and difficult to control. Even Stella seems a little happier.   
  
The bubbles in the bathtub are just right again and Daisy is never in danger of getting lost. Bedtime goes smoothly and Michael’s bedtime story privileges are eventually restored. He actually gets time to relax again.  
  
Lo’s ballet exercises stop being a trial. Her wardrobe is restocked so well she can’t possibly use all her leotards before outgrowing them and her recital goes off without a hitch. Lo beams when Charlie earnestly tells her that she looks just like a real ballerina. (They’re talking again.) Lo really does look like a ballerina: she’s in a perfect pink tutu and leotard (nails painted impeccably to match – he’ll never understand how Ryan does it), hair swept up in a bun as flawless as her footwork. Madame Anderson approaches Michael and tells him how proud she is of Lauren’s return to form and how pleased she is that things have worked out for their family.  
  
(Things haven’t worked out, not entirely. Not _yet_ , he tells himself. But they will. They have to.)  
  
And Ollie finally gets to break out the child-sized skateboard Grandma Ike sent him, even if Ryan’s first reaction is to say, “ _No_ , you’re FIVE. Grandma’s crazy. Wait – don’t tell her I said that.”  
  
Ike purposely sends the twins the sorts of playthings Ryan drove her crazy with as a kid. But that doesn’t mean Ryan will get away with that remark; he has to promise Ollie an iguana to keep him quiet.  
  
Michael takes pity on him and distracts Ollie with an offer to “play one of the games Nana sent you guys.” Mom, educator that she is, sends lots of supposedly enriching toys.  
  
Ryan shoots him a relieved smile and Michael doesn’t hesitate to smile back. It’s the first they’ve exchanged in weeks.  
  
(It feels like more of a victory than any medal Michael’s ever won. “Make Ryan smile” gets a checkmark on the goal sheet, but doesn’t get crossed out because it’s definitely not a one-off goal.)  
  
Ryan does eventually give in and teaches Ollie to skateboard. Ollie _loves_ it. He smiles so big their near-heart attacks are worth it. Michael proceeds to send Ike two dozen roses later that month. He needs to get on her good side if he wants to learn all the tricks necessary to get a mini-Ryan to adulthood without (much) permanent damage. (Because Ollie may be his spitting image, but his personality is all Lochte.)  
  
Things are not the same, but they’re getting closer to normal. The twins finally ( _finally_ ) believe Ryan’s back for good. They stop worrying that their dads are splitting up forever. Dad and Daddy are a team again. Bad cop and good cop are back in sync.  
  
(But not Michael and Ryan.  
  
Ryan doesn’t even _smell_ the same anymore. The cologne is missing.  
  
As for sunshine, Michael’s forgotten what that smells like. He begins to wonder if he imagined it.)  
  
\---  
  
But there’s one thing that’s _definitely_ not back to normal. Shortly after Ryan moves back, Michael finds out that “going to practice” means anything but. In fact, Gregg tells him Ryan’s stopped going to practice altogether; he practiced poorly and erratically after moving out and hasn’t set foot in the O’Connell Center since . . . if he’s calculated correctly, since Ollie ran away, though he doesn’t mention that part to Gregg.  
  
He’s got his work cut out for him, Michael thinks as he revises his goal sheet.  
  
The next couple days, Michael covertly tails Ryan when he leaves “for practice,” driving close enough behind to follow, but far behind enough not to draw attention to himself.  
  
The first day, his stomach is a knot of nerves. (A big part of him he won’t acknowledge is afraid he’s about to get his comeuppance.) Michael lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding (and immediately hates himself for his suspicion and his relief in equal measure) when he sees that “going to practice” means Ryan driving out to Lake Alice and hiding out there for hours every day – all to avoid getting back in the pool.  
  
Michael hates that Ryan is doing this. And he _does not ever_ want Ollie and Lo to do something like this. They need to know they can’t let _any_ body take their dreams from them, even – especially – the person they plan to spend the rest of their lives with. And he doesn’t want to be a “do as I say, not as I do” kind of parent.  
  
(Michael tries not to dwell on the fact that he would never want his kids to end up with someone like him, because that just makes him feel even shittier.)  
  
\---  
  
The next morning he tells Ryan he could do with some laps and wants to tag along to practice. (Ollie and Lo are sleeping over at the Dwyers’ and won’t be home till dinnertime. Totally not intentional.)  
  
“Actually, I uh – I’m not feeling so hot. I think I’m gonna call in sick today.”  
  
“So you’re wearing your gear just for kicks?”  
  
“I _was_ gonna go, but I feel crappier than when I got up, OK?”  
  
Michael almost lets Ryan get away with the lie. (How many times did _he_ lie? _A lie by omission is still a lie, Michael,_ Mom always told him growing up.) But he can’t afford to pussy out. “That’s weak, man.”  
  
“Mike –”  
  
He touches Ryan’s forehead with the back of his hand. “You haven’t got a fever.” He tries to ignore the fact that Ryan reflexively jerks away from his touch.  
  
(They’re still sleeping in separate rooms. He doesn’t see that changing anytime soon.)  
  
“ _Michael_ –”  
  
“You’re not nauseous either; I mean, you ate your breakfast like a champ, so don’t try to feed me that bullshit. You’re just lazy.” If getting Ryan _angry_ enough to go to practice works, he’ll take it.  
  
“I don’t want to go, asshole,” Ryan snaps. (Clearly, Michael is getting to him.) “Like, do you need somebody to hold your hand at the pool or something? Is that why you want me to go so bad?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s it. Exactly. You caught me,” Michael snorts. “Get your ass off the couch, we’re going to the pool.” He catches Ryan off-guard enough that he can pull him to his feet without much resistance. “Chop, chop!”  
  
\---  
  
It’s ghostly quiet when they get there. Gregg is killing time in his office with some imaginary urgent phone call.  
  
Michael’s shucked his sweats and is standing there in just his suit, tapping his foot impatiently, trying to ignore both the cold and his self-consciousness over the flab Ollie had pointed out and pinched last time they’d been in the pool.  
  
Ryan’s probably not in fighting shape either, if he’s been practicing so badly and then skipping entirely. (Among other things, he’s apparently dropped the Strongman workouts with Matt altogether.) The thought is by no means consoling. It only makes Michael feel guiltier. They’ve only got so much time.  
  
(And anyway, Ryan will always come out on top in the looks department. His face is as much a work of art as his body, like the fucking _David_ or something. Being fit and ripped is all Michael has ever had going for him there and he vows right then not to let himself go anymore. )  
  
Ryan is still in his warm-ups, toes curled around the edges of the pool and looking so like Ollie on his first day of swim class – like the water will splash up and bite him – that Michael’s chest feels tight.  
  
Seriously, Ryan’s looking at the water like it’ll _hurt_ him, like he’s the Wicked Witch of the West and he’ll _melt_ or some shit.  
  
(The water can’t hurt him worse than Michael has.)  
  
“Get in the pool, Ryan.”  
  
“I’m not wearing my Speedo,” Ryan says triumphantly, arms crossed childishly over his chest. ( _That_ reminds him of Lo.) “I _told_ you I didn’t want to swim today.”  
  
Michael pauses only a split second before pushing him in. (Mentally, he checks “Get Ryan back in the pool” off his goal sheet. The means is unorthodox, but it still counts, right?)  
  
Moments later, Ryan resurfaces, sputtering and coughing and cursing. “What the hell, man? What the fuck was that? My _clothes_ , bro!”  
  
“I mean, if you wanted to go skinny-dipping you should’ve just –”  
  
“Not funny. For real, what the fuck, dude?”  
  
“You’re skipping practice. You’ve been skipping and you’ve been sucking even longer than that. I know, Ry.”  
  
Ryan’s treading water now, head tilted back to look up at Michael, who’s still standing on the deck. “You mad, bro? I thought you’d be happy,” he responds lazily, not bothering to make excuses.  
  
Michael deserves that. “I’m not.”  
  
“Why, you worried I’m fucking around in my newfound spare time?” Ryan asks casually, but the cool burn in his eyes belies his tone. “Don’t be. Not really my style, man.” He looks up for a moment as though he’s just remembering something, then his eyes cut back to Michael. “You get tested yet, Mikey?”  
  
 _God_ , he deserves that too and the thought turns his stomach, but this isn’t the time or the place. All he does is nod, feeling his face burn.  
  
The question in Ryan’s eyes is unmistakable.  
  
“Clear,” he says tersely, looking Ryan in the eye for a split second. But he can’t get tripped up in his own guilt right now. He can’t let Ryan try to skirt the problem they can fix _now_. Michael broke things and he’s going to fix them and this is where he can start. “And no, I’m not happy about you skipping practice or your swimming apparently going to hell. I can’t be happy when you’re miserable.”  
  
“I’m not miserable. Before, yeah, I was. Only seeing Olls and Lo two days a week sucked. Them being so messed up by everything sucked. Not being home, being in that stupid rental by myself – that sucked. Everything fucking sucked.” Ryan looks away. “It’s good now. I’m good.”  
  
It’s not true. (Well, _mostly_ not true. Ryan’s living in their house again. Things with the kids are almost back to normal. But what Ryan didn’t say, what’s _not_ good now hangs in the air between them, nearly tangible enough to touch.)  
  
It’s obvious Ryan misses the pool. He’s been more open about his feelings – brutally and sarcastically so, but Michael will take what he can get (and it’s not like it’s not justified) – in the last couple minutes floating in the water than he’s been in the entire time since he moved out. Which isn’t saying much, but the tension that’s never really left Ryan’s face and shoulders is easing just a little bit.  
  
He doesn’t know if he’s about to make things better or worse. “It’s not good. _You’re_ not good.”  
  
Ryan just looks at him.  
  
 _One step at a time_ , Michael tells himself before jumping in.


	4. Can't Have It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe he deserves this.

 

Michael breaks the surface, starts treading water across from him.

“Why’d you stop coming to practice?”

“I guess – I can’t have it all. And I’m not gonna pick the pool over my – over Ollie and Lo.” Ryan almost says _my family_ , but is Mike his family anymore, really? He missed them being a whole family, missed Michael so much while he was living alone, but now that he’s back, now that he sees Michael every single day, all he can see when he closes his eyes is –

Well, family doesn’t – family doesn’t do what Michael did. “No matter what you think, they come first. I loved the pool, but they – nothing else matters.”

\---

Nothing matters more than his family. Ryan’s always known that, felt it in his heart and head and gut, known it like he knows his own name, but it’s only after they’re torn apart that the knowledge settles in his bones and his skin and the air around him, squeezing him from the inside out, choking him like a fish out of water every time he remembers he’s alone. (Every minute of every day, even when he’s sleeping. Even in his dreams.)

Ryan gets worse and worse in the pool after – after he moves out.  Gregg, for once, isn’t a hard-ass over his shitty splits or even the other shit he's pulling and somehow that makes it all worse. Gregg’s pity makes him feel sick to his stomach, sick and sad and so defeated that getting in the pool every day is a struggle.

Even _before_ , his training for Istanbul was more challenging than anything’s ever been in the pool. Yes, Ryan’s older. (A lot older.) But mostly it’s that now he knows what it’s like to train with Michael every day.

(But he makes do, because he knows it’s not fair to ask Michael to give him that much _twice_. Especially now that the kids are older, too.)

The fact of the matter is that Ryan got spoiled and now that he can’t have that closeness, the motivation born from having the love of his life – who also happens to be the best swimmer in the world – egging him on, the strength he draws just from Michael being _there_ (training with Mike is the only thing that makes him not being in the next lane at meets OK), he struggles. Ryan can’t have that anymore and he misses it and it's hard (not impossible, but not easy) for his times to equal what he put up then.

Especially now, when his entire body feels like lead (feels dead) in the water.

And life out of the pool is even worse. The kids are so unhappy it kills him. So many times Ryan is _thisclose_ to asking to come back home even though he’s not sure he can set foot in the house without remembering.

It’s mostly Lo that breaks his heart every weekend, how much she misses Michael, how much that echoes his own longing. It makes Ryan feel guilty. It makes him hate himself – both for tearing them all apart and for missing Michael, too.

\---

But the thing that really snaps Ryan out of his stupor is Ollie running away.

Looking back, Ollie reminds him of Devon, of Brandon, _especially_ of himself when their parents divorced, of trying to be good, trying not to make them feel worse when they were already having such a hard time, no matter what his own feelings were.

Even as a grown man, it had been hard to see his parents split up. _Trying to be good_ meant laser-focusing on his swimming so they wouldn’t worry about him, so they wouldn’t be disappointed, so they’d be _proud_ and maybe, just maybe, smile again. Anything less than perfection was failure. The pressure was fucking unbearable.

(Now, _after_ , Ryan wonders if his swimming was part of their problem. He thinks the pressure of raising an Olympian – not to mention four other kids – might have been too much for them. He thinks of the press hounding them. He thinks of Dad’s DUI, of Devon’s arrest, of their dream of being on the same Olympic relay going up in smoke. He thinks of Mom trying to stay positive through it all, trying to smile when all she wanted to do was cry.

Maybe the pressure – the burden of living up to his big brother – was too much for Devon, too.

Maybe Ryan’s always been a blind, selfish asshole.

Maybe he deserves this.)

But the pressure on a _five year old_ – Ryan hates himself for not _really_ seeing how hard everything is on Ollie. When they find him, Ryan nearly crushes his son in a hug. And if his eyes happen to water – well, it’s been the longest, most terrifying day of his life. By the time Ryan and Michael put the kids to bed, Ryan feels a hundred years old, wide awake and _so fucking exhausted_ all at once. He’s drained, but hours later his heart still races with the fear he felt that he might never see Ollie again.

But when Ryan says good night to Ollie, he’s so ashamed that he’s failed him that he can barely look at him – no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much he wants to look over every inch of skin, every last hair on Ollie’s head, to see, to _know_ that he’s not hurt, to let that knowledge seep into him, know it in his heart and feel it in his bones.

He can barely look Michael in the eye either, hating himself for what he said, how he said it. The last word anyone would ever use to describe Michael Phelps is _careless_. (Especially not with their kids.)

But he has to. _Don’t be such a fucking pussy_ , Ryan tells himself. He should come home because this is too much for the kids, he says. He struggles to get it out, but there it is.

“Yeah. You should. The kids would like that,” Michael says.

(Ryan wishes Michael would too.

Even as he thinks it, he’s disappointed that he’s so _weak_.)

\---

There’s a part of him that resents having to _ask_ to come home, to feel like he’s coming back with his tail between his legs when really, he hadn’t – But he’d do _anything_ for the kids.

Their smiles make it worth it. Having them snuggle up beside him is worth it. Having them sleep well once they go back to their own beds is worth it.

(Sometimes Ryan feels guilty when he catches Michael’s eyes at first, feels bad that the kids are pretty much ignoring Michael now that he’s back.

Other times Ryan recalls all the hours alone in the house he rented, the small, sad part of him that wanted to curl up and die every weekend that the kids came to visit and barely talked, every time Lo didn’t hesitate to tell him that she didn’t want _his_ bedtime stories because they weren’t _right_ , every trip to the park where Ollie didn’t complain – he never does – but Ryan could just tell it wasn’t good enough, wasn’t _right_ , wasn’t nearly as fun as their backyard.)

Lo looking like herself again (down to the nails he paints again now that he’s home), dancing like herself again, is worth it. Ollie’s smile when he brings home the iguana is worth it. (Somewhere in Port Orange, Mom is laughing. Because somehow she knows. She _always_ knows.)

Ollie and Lo make _everything_ worth it.

Even swallowing the bile that threatens to crawl up his throat every time he walks by their (Michael’s ) room and remembers.

\---

Really, all Ryan does wrong is decide that he wants to go to Istanbul. He’s been successful beyond his wildest dreams in Rio and riding high, so when a reporter at his first post-Rio press conference asks what he plans to do now that the Games are over, he answers without thinking: “Um, take a break. Lots of QT with my family, of course. Then, uh, I think start training for Istanbul.”

(OK, all he does is decide to go for Istanbul 2020 and tell a reporter - a room full of press, actually - _on a whim_.)

This is a Big Fucking Deal.

You could hear a pin drop. No one expects that – he’ll be 36 at the end of the 2020 Summer Olympics. (More likely than not, his birthday will, like usual, fall during or right after the Games.) It’s nearly ( _nearly_ ) unheard of. Insane for swimmers not named Dara Torres, no matter how much ass he’d just kicked. But once they get over their shock, everybody is pumped. Mom, Dad, his sisters and brothers and their kids, Gregg, his agent, his sponsors. Ollie and Lo don’t get what's going on (they’re still so _little_ ), but they feed off the excitement from everybody else. Everyone’s happy.

Well, not everyone. Not one person, to be exact. The most important person. He likes the idea a lot less than everybody else. Not that he tells Ryan that.

\---

Ryan finds out the worst fucking way.

Ollie and Lo are going to day camp with Charlie and Evan that summer and having a blast. Elizabeth always drops the kids back off at 4 (they carpool for everything – school, camp, whatever), so Ryan cuts practice short that day and goes home for some one-on-one QT with MP.

(No sneaking kisses today to avoid Ollie’s disgusted “eww!” when he sees them; no “not so loud, you’ll wake the kids!” Ryan thinks, already looking forward to the afternoon ahead.

Soft as it makes him sound, he looks forward to _after_ too, when they just _are_ together, just the two of them.

Maybe they’ll even have time for some Madden.)

Mike’s car is in the driveway, so he isn’t coaching. He should’ve been in the living room watching footage or at the dining room table maybe, working on foundation stuff or clinics. Making phone calls.  Maybe in the kitchen eating. Probably taking a nap – even after all these years, he isn’t used to the heat. It makes him sleepy.

But Michael isn’t taking a nap. He’s wide awake. And he isn’t alone.

(Ryan can’t – he must be having a nightmare. Hallucinating. He can’t breathe. Maybe it’s a heart attack. A heart attack, that’s it. His heart’s beating so fast it’s gonna burst out of his chest.)

He steps back, turns, walks as fast as he can. His legs are jelly, like after the most brutal practice of his life. It’s like trying to walk underwater.

(Maybe this is what dying feels like, that moment when you realize the end is seconds away.)

Ryan makes it to the car, fumbles for his keys and falls into the seat, his legs giving out under him. Somehow he remembers to lock the damn car. He grips the steering wheel so tight he’ll probably break it. He can _feel_ his fingers turning white but not really at all.

(He can’t feel much of anything.)

Ryan puts his head down, forehead against the steering wheel, eyes closed, trying not to remember. He can’t stay here, but he can’t drive like this, he’ll get arrested for breaking the speed limit, run a light, get into an accident – fuck himself up. He’s used to that. But he can’t. His life might be over, but still – no. Ollie and Lo. _Their kids_. God. _God_. What the hell? _Breathe. Breathe. In and out_.

He can’t think. But his mind won’t turn the fuck off. 

Ryan sits there, holding the steering wheel for dear life – could be a second or a year, he has no idea – when he hears a knock against the glass. He looks up. Please don’t – Damn him. Damn him to hell. He wants to ignore Michael, maybe forever till he rots out there in the Florida heat he hates so much, fucking bastard. Would serve him right. But Ryan kinda – OK _really_ – wants to take a swing at him.

(He’s not a fighter and definitely not with Mike, but now – now Ryan wants to land a punch even more than that time with Devon and the bartender.)

But when he gets out he wraps his left hand around his clenched right fist. Because domestic violence. Because the neighbors. Because Ollie and Lo. (They’d want to know why Dad had a black eye.) _Impulse control. See, Erika, aren’t you proud?_ (Ryan 1, Impulses 0.)

He leans back against the car, looking into the distance. Michael won’t make eye contact either. Great. Man the fuck up, man. Michael has the balls to stick it to somebody else _in their fucking house_ but not to look Ryan in the fucking eye when he gets caught.

“What – what the fuck was . . . I – How? _Why_?”

Michael bites his lip. Clenches his jaw. Stares into the distance. After a million years, he opens his mouth. “I don’t – I” Another deep breath. “Istanbul. I’m sor –”

“ _Istanbul_?!?!” He can’t –

The dam breaks. “ _Another four years_ , Ryan! It’s been too much. I thought we were done after Rio. I put it all on the line for Rio, every day. So it could be everything you wanted. And then we could just be _normal_ , you know? It’s been over for years for me, but I can’t get away from it because you –” Michael stops, backtracks. I wanted the foundation for me, you know, I guess fashion for you, everything you said you’d do after swimming, but – we’d both be around most of the time, like a normal couple. A normal family. Not another four years of semi-single parenting again.”

“ _Single parenting_?” Ryan can’t believe what he’s hearing. He’s just seen the worst fucking thing imaginable and then Michael tries to justify it by telling him he’s an absentee parent? I mean, he worries, he does, he really does, but – “That’s not fucking fair, man! Nathan – like, that's actually – I can’t even – I train right here. It’s like almost a normal job. I’m home for dinner and baths and bedtime and _everything_ most of the time. Maybe – yeah, like, _during_ Rio when I couldn’t see you guys that sucked so much.”

(Those times are hard. Ryan knows that. He _feels_ that. And if it’s hard for him, it’s harder for Michael who has the kids and _their_ feelings to deal with. Those - thankfully few - nights Ryan can’t be with his family he has trouble sleeping because he misses them, because he misses Michael lying beside him, because the question _Is this worth it?_ floats in his mind until he finally drifts off.)

But Ryan stops that train of thought short, remembering why they’re fighting in the first place. “But that’s not – you _cheated on me_. Why didn’t you use your fucking _words_ , bro? Y’know, _tell me_ you didn’t want me to go another four years? You know, work things out like an adult? You say I don’t think – but you know what, fuck you. _You_ didn’t.”

Michael looks at him then. He takes a breath, his voice suddenly something that could be called shrill (for Michael): “And _you_ did, man? You didn’t even ask me – hell, at least _tell me_ – before you told the international _press corps_ in Rio!”

That’s true and Ryan can’t say anything to contradict him. (Ryan 1, Impulses 1.)

Michael’s breathing hard now, knowing he’s scored a hit. “And after that, I tried – I didn’t want to say _no_ , don’t do it. It didn’t seem fair to ask you to hold yourself back when you’d really, really _finally_ hit your stride. Like, if you’d been this good in London, you would’ve handed my ass to me on a silver platter. _Silver_. Like the medals I would’ve gotten in our races if you’d been at the top of your game.”

“Like for real, you’re gonna tell me how good I am at _swimming_ right now?” Is Michael really trying to dig his way out of this with _flattery_? By exaggerating how good of a swimmer Ryan is? Seriously?

Michael looks away again. “No, I just – you have to understand! I wanted you to change your mind. But I didn’t want to make you, man. I mean, I know I’m controlling sometimes but – not about this. I know how – It’s _hard_ though! Swimming, it’s – The kids, I always – I just wanted – I don’t _know_.” It’s like he has no idea what he’s trying to say. Another deep breath, slow, shuddering. “I’m sorry.”

Ryan’s so _angry_. It’s weird. Like, he’d started to feel bad about Istanbul (he’s _always_ felt bad about just springing it on everyone, especially on Michael, but he didn't do it on purpose, he just didn’t _think_ ), about Mike holding all that shit inside that Ryan had no idea he was thinking. But that apology at the end just makes him fucking _furious_ because he remembers what Michael is apologizing for.

Everybody thinks Ryan never gets angry, he’s got that stoner surfer dude vibe, but right now, damn. He can’t even listen anymore, even if maybe some of it makes sense and he’s been stupid and they’ve both been stupid, because right now all he sees is red and it scares him because this isn’t him, it’s not who he is.

But Ryan can’t stop himself. “What, you’re sorry, so it’s like OK? You’re _sorry_ because I fucking _walked in on you_ fucking somebody else. I can’t unsee that shit, man. Fuck sorry. I never – you know how many people, men, women, throw themselves at me? Like my ring doesn’t mean shit? I _never_ – but it’d be _easy_ , man. I could have a fucking orgy if I wanted it. You wouldn’t fucking know. And at least I’d have the fucking decency not to bring into our fucking _house_ , where ourkids live. Into our damn _bed_ , you fucking douche.”

Michael flinches at that.

Ryan laughs a laughs that makes his own skin crawl, hating himself for the stupidity everybody always talks about. “How many times?” It’s morbid and he can’t believe he’s doing this to himself, but he _has_ to know.

“Ry –”

“HOW MANY FUCKING TIMES?” He’s _thisclose_ to shoving Michael back against the car. But –

“It’s been going on for a while now.”

If one of the neighbors hears – it’ll be all over the Internet in a matter of minutes. The neighbors are all right, pretty decent actually, about the press, but still – the two best swimmers in the world, one the Greatest Olympian of All Time, screaming over an affair in the driveway, that’s a Big Fucking Deal. It's a TMZ headline waiting to happen.

(Well, it’s mostly Ryan screaming for once – Michael hadn’t exactly been quiet at first, but he’s speaking so quietly by now Ryan almost needs to lean in to hear him. Except he wants to be nowhere the hell near Michael right now.)

The neighbors wouldn’t be able to help themselves. Ryan’s shocked how detached he is (like being high, like an out of body experience, floating above the flaming ruins of his life without feeling the heat of the fire), thinking about the neighbors and the damn press – maybe he’s learned something from Michael after all.

For some reason, the thought deflates him. Suddenly, he’s tired. He can’t do this anymore. “I don’t – I don’t wanna know. I can’t, right now.”

“Ryan –”

“No – I need, I need some time out. I can’t – I can’t fucking look at you without . . . Yeah, I’m just gonna . . . throw some shit in a suitcase, get outta here, get –”

“Away from you” goes unsaid, but he hopes Michael hears it loud and clear.

\---

Away from Michael isn’t an option anymore.

Away from the pool is.

And it’s so _easy_. The pool represents everything that’s wrong with his life, _why_ everything’s wrong with his life. For the first time in Ryan’s life, water is the enemy.

(Except the real enemy looks back at him in the mirror every morning.)

\---

 _Loved_. Ryan doesn’t even really want to get in the pool with Ollie anymore to goof off, but the kid’s half-fish and he loves it and Ryan’s definitely not going to take that away from him. (He’ll admit a small selfish part of him is relieved to catch a break when Ollie wants to learn how to skateboard.)

Anyway, the backyard pool isn’t the practice pool.

He kind of hates Michael for making him come to practice. He kind of hates Michael for pushing him in the pool. He kind of hates Michael for a lot of things.

(Almost as much as he loves him.

Almost as much as he hates himself.)

Michael is silent for a long time.

Finally he asks: “Can’t you love them both?” He looks unblinkingly at Ryan even as water from his too-long hair drips into his eyes.

Ryan looks away. He just can’t answer and the silence is deafening.

He’s not about to run his mouth again after how much trouble it’s caused. Ever again, he tells himself.

(Ryan 2, Impulses 1.)

He moves to float on his back instead. Eyes closed, he just breathes.

Truth is, Ryan’s not sure he knows how anymore.

(He thinks it would kill him to admit that out loud.)


	5. What Do You Want?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, Ryan is 100% domesticated now.

As Michael pulls the Escalade into the parking lot at St. Peter’s, the ever-present knot in his stomach feels tighter than ever.

Miraculously, things go pretty well. The kids have always been well-behaved and well-liked and despite the issues at home, things are going well at school (they do any acting out _at_ home), so their discussion with Sister Margaret is brief and easy.

It’s the cookies-and-punch reception in the cafeteria afterwards that’s the problem. They’re standing around the punch bowl with Conor and Elizabeth and Nathan, talking between bites of (honestly not-very-good) cookies.

(But cookies are cookies, he thinks as he has another, avoiding Nathan’s gaze and the disapproving side-eye he’s undoubtedly giving him.)

Privately, Michael is hoping they can head out soon, but Conor is feeling pretty chatty tonight.

That’s when they see her.

Michael prays Ryan won’t recognize her. But it’s obvious he does; he looks like a deer in headlights the moment he lays eyes on her.

For a split second, Michael worries that there’s going to be a scene and they’ll never be able to show their faces at the kids’ school again.

Unbelievably (it’s straight out of a nightmare, the universe’s latest _fuck you, Michael Phelps_ ), Mrs. Jones, the principal, introduces her to them, saying that she’s enrolled her daughter at St. Peter’s while she’s in the states. (She’s from London.) Because her year-long fellowship is at UF, Mrs. Jones thought she should meet Ryan.

(Just one year. Thank God. Then he’ll never have to worry about seeing her again. Or _Ryan_ seeing her again.)

Ryan, to his credit, is all grace and good manners, managing to act like he’s never seen this woman before in his life.

Like he hadn’t caught his husband in bed with her.

(It’s an Oscar-worthy performance.

Maybe he has a future in Hollywood after all.)

Ryan’s pitch-perfect, even as he realizes has no choice but to introduce her to Conor and Elizabeth, since Mrs. Jones knows they’re also UF alums still involved with the university.

(Thankfully, she doesn’t end up meeting _all_ their friends because Nathan has been dragged off by yet another St. Peter’s mother trying to set him up on a blind date with a friend/sister/cousin/co-worker. Because _hello_ , Olympian getting a medical degree who’s well-mannered and good-looking? Michael’s honestly surprised the moms don’t throw _their_ panties at the guy.

Unfortunately for Nathan, these dates he gets cajoled into because he’s too polite to say no to always end in unmitigated disaster. Whenever Michael and Ryan end up babysitting Charlie those nights out, they get the exclusive play-by-play of every single shitshow Nathan gets dragged into immediately after the fact. It’s comedy gold. Seriously, Nate’s life could be a sitcom.

Poor guy should really just start wearing a fake ring to these shindigs so he can avoid the soccer moms’ clutches and cooing. The thought of ever being the object of the _cooing_ makes Michael break out in a cold sweat.

Kind of like the one he’s got going on right now.)

Once she walks away as quickly as she possibly can without it looking weird and Conor and Elizabeth are out of earshot, Michael lets out the breath he’s been holding for the entirety of the conversation, can _feel_ the color coming back into his face, lets the stiff, plastic smile slide off, snags yet another cookie because _God_ , he deserves it after surviving the reunion from hell.

Only then does Ryan whisper, “Don’t remember my catechism that well – I just, like, daydreamed most Sundays – but I’m pretty sure adultery’s, like, against the rules. The Ten Commandments or something. Shouldn’t you guys have burned up or gotten struck by lightning or something right about now?”

Michael doesn't know what possesses him to actually answer the question, but he whispers back, “It’s only a school. Maybe in a church. Or like, if you threw holy water on me.”

(It’s as close to an admission of guilt as he’s made out loud since everything fell apart, besides the “I’m sorrys” that fell on deaf ears the day Ryan caught them.)

Inexplicably, Ryan laughs.

(It's the saddest sound in the world, Michael thinks, turning away to grab a cookie off the tray. He picks up the nearest one; it's got a dollop of bright orange marmalade in the center.

It looks just like sunset.)

\---

After being unceremoniously dunked in the pool, Ryan refuses to go back. And he doesn’t bother to hide it anymore. (From Michael, anyway. The kids have no idea Daddy seems to have given up on swimming.)

Patient as he’s been, Gregg has thrown up his hands, all but giving Ryan up as a lost cause, even though he’s unquestionably the best swimmer he’s ever worked with (and likely will _ever_ work with). Michael still hopes, in the back of his mind, that Ryan will change _his_ mind. If he has a prayer of getting back to where he was, he can’t be _completely_ out of shape when he gets back in the pool. So over breakfast one day, Michael takes the opportunity to make an off-hand comment about Ryan not exactly being in fighting shape.

(It’s a low blow, definitely a Bob move, but what other choice does he have at this point?)

Much as he’s matured, Ryan’s still got some vanity in him. He probably always will. It’s hard not to when you’ve been told how fucking _beautiful_ you are pretty much from the cradle. It’s his Achilles’ heel.

(Vanity, thy name is Lochte.)

Michael expects some smart-aleck remark or at least a Look in response. _Look who’s talking, Mikey._ (Exactly the sort of smart-ass thing Ryan _would_ say, especially since the kid in that movie is _named_ Mikey.)

Instead, there’s a strange – almost pained – look in Ryan’s eyes, one that fades so quickly Michael might’ve imagined it, before he smirks, “Yeah, guess I’ve let myself go. Not like your slam piece, right?”

Michael gapes at him, but all Ryan does is put his empty bowl in the sink and walk out of the kitchen before he can even formulate a response.

They don’t talk about it again.

But Ryan starts going back to his non-pool workout, hitting the weights again (alone) and running regularly. The effect is obvious.

Maybe it’s just the endorphins, but he does seem a _little_ lighter, with a spring back in his step, but that might just be wishful thinking.

(Still, Michael wonders if it was worth it.)

\---

Ryan’s just come in from his morning run. Breathing hard, cheeks flushed like after a race, like – Michael shakes the thought away. ( _Not the time, not the place._ )

“Man, I’m glad you’re sticking with the running and all, but you – you gotta get back in the pool. There’s Short Courses and everything after that and if those don’t work out, you can probably forget Istanbul, so –”

“ _Do_ you actually want me to go to Istanbul?” Ryan asks skeptically.

Michael opens his mouth, realizes he can’t actually _answer_ the question because he doesn’t _know_ , even after everything that’s happened and how he’s been pushing, and –

But Ryan isn’t done talking. “I think – I think you just want everything to go back to normal. But it can’t.”

What is he trying to say? Is he –

“Whatever this – whatever happens now, it’s gonna be different. _I’m_ different. It’s – I mean, I said, after London, I was going to Rio and I’d go another four years after if I was still having fun. Remember that, Mike? Stating the obvious here, but it’s not fun anymore. Swimming isn’t gonna be fun again, ever.”

(Michael flinches at that. _He_ did that.)

“I almost lost everything. I can’t even –”

Ryan can’t even finish talking.

\---

Michael knows Ryan isn’t being entirely honest, not even with himself. Now, _after_ , he’s like a fish out of water. For all the remarks about _Michael_ being half-fish, really it’s Ryan – 

 _Before_ , Michael would’ve said, without a doubt, that Ryan would get in the pool every day (even if it’s just the one in the yard), swim a couple laps before getting on with his day and the rest of his life. Long after hanging up his Speedo, long after it stopped being his job, his responsibility. _Just because_. Because _racing_. Just because he loves it, loves the water.

(Ryan’s never viewed it as a burden, as something to transcend, to conquer, to thrash into submission. It’s so _simple_ to him.

Not like Michael.)

 _Loved_ it, apparently. Push came to shove, and Ryan made his choice.

Michael can’t help but think of that YouTube video again.

_What defines Ryan Lochte now?_

\---

Ryan is _less_ somehow. Michael thinks he’s the only one who sees it (the kids still don’t know about the swimming – rather, the _not_ swimming), so he’s surprised when Ollie tells him Daddy seems sad.

Ollie is so _perceptive_. Michael shouldn’t be all that surprised. But he doesn’t have an answer (an answer he can share with Ollie), so he tries to skirt the question (like Ryan would probably do because he wouldn’t want to burden the kids, but also wouldn’t want to _lie_ to them), then deny it, but Ollie is persistent and shakes his head.

“No, he _is_. Like when Lo said she wanted _you_ to tell us bedtime stories. She cried and _everything_ and he was so _sad_.”

Michael raises an eyebrow at him.

“When?”

Ollie looks at him like he’s stupid. “Bedtime.”

Later, when the kids have gone to sleep and they’re alone, Michael asks Ryan about it.

Ryan looks up from the magazine he’s reading. ( _GQ_.) “Yeah, at bedtime every night, you know, when I was – when I moved out, she would like, completely freak out and cry because you know my bedtime stories suck. Like literally she hated them so much she would like cut me off and didn’t even want a kiss goodnight and just kept saying she wanted you.”

(After that, Michael feels a little bit guilty for being so jealous when Ryan first moved back.)

\---

Michael comes home one day to find Ryan sitting at the kitchen table in sweats, glasses on (he actually needs them now), hair still wet from the shower he took, probably after his run. He's watching something on his laptop and mouthing words Michael can't catch, so intent on what he's doing that he doesn't seem to realize that Michael's just walked in.

He's pretty sure it's in French. He didn't even know Ryan _knew_ French. "What's that?"

"Rosetta Stone, man, it's great."

"Since when? Anyway, it's - it's French? I thought you wanted to learn Spanish, you know, make Ike happy."

(Ryan has always wanted to learn Spanish. He's just never really had the time for it.)

"The kids have, like, foreign languages now, remember? And Ollie's doing French, jeah? Mom can help Lo on Skype if she needs it, but Ollie's gonna need help with his, too, so I'm gonna do French first."

Then a timer goes off. Ryan pauses his video.

"What's that?"

"Lemon squares. Kids have a bake sale." That explains why the kitchen smells so good. Normally, they'd just buy something from a bakery because, honestly, they can cook (the kids need to eat after all), but who would expect two men - who are professional athletes, at that (one retired, but still) - to be so domestic they know how to _bake_ and shit?

Apparently Ryan is 100% domesticated now. He pads over to the oven, barefoot as usual.

For some reason, it makes Michael think of that stupid sexist phrase his sisters always said in mocking tones – _barefoot and pregnant_ – about women who basically just pop out kids and spend their lives at home raising them.

(Except, you know, Ryan doesn’t have the equipment for that. Shame, really. Otherwise they could’ve avoided all the crazy surrogate IVF crap and having to convince the doctor that yes, they wanted to mix their stuff because they didn’t want to _know_ who the biological father was, and no, they weren’t crazy. Except it’s totally obvious anyway who’s genetically whose anyway – not that it matters to them, so the point’s moot.)

As Ryan hovers over the tray and messes with the cooling rack, Michael looks around at the kitchen and notices – _really_ notices – for the first time that it’s _sparkling_. Like, you could eat off the floor if you wanted. It’s been like that since Ryan got back.

He hasn’t washed a dish or done a load of laundry and has barely _made a fucking meal_ since Ryan came back. He’s literally become the laziest motherfucker on the planet. And it’s just then that he realizes it. Like, Ryan is literally doing all his own housework and picked up Michael’s too, now that the kids have gotten used to him being back and don’t demand his attention every waking moment.

(Now that he’s not swimming.)

It’s just . . . _mind-boggling_. And so  . . . not Ryan. As much as he’s not, like, afraid to compromise his masculinity and do all the girly shit for Lo that Michael would totally fuck up, this isn’t his style at all. He does his fair share, mostly ( _before_ , Michael would pick up the slack, but even he can admit now it wasn’t really all that much), but this – this is _ridiculous_. Now that he thinks about it, nothing’s ever out of place in the house at all now. (Except in their – his – room, which, obvious reasons. He _did_ get rid of the bed when Ryan asked to come back, but still.) And everything’s spotless.

(The only thing gathering dust is Ryan’s sketchbook on the bookshelf, the one with designs for Speedo. And probably his swimming gear, except it’s all likely to be at the bottom of his closet where Michael can’t see it.

Both thoughts sting.)

“What are you _doing_? Since when do you _bake_? Are you like, a Stepford wife now or something, man? You decide being a stay-at-home mom is your calling now that you’re not swimming?” (The last five words feel like cut glass in his throat, but Michael has to say them.)

“You mad, bro? What’s the matter – you really like the bakery stuff that much? Don’t even. My stuff’s _good_ , man. Like, you totally liked that carrot cake last night, didn’t you? That was all me. Which by the way, you let the kids have seconds. What was that about? You always get on my case about one more _cookie_."

(Yeah, Michael’s not about to admit that he tried playing good cop when Ryan moved out and now the kids expect it. The way things have been lately, he’s not about to rock the boat now.)

“Like, _Nathan says they’re going to get diabetes if we give them too many sweets, Ryan! You can have three sugars in your coffee if you want, Ryan, but not the kids! If we give_ ourselves _diabetes, it’s like,_ whatever _, Ryan, but not the_ kids! Which, seriously? Diabetes doesn’t run in my family. Or yours. And like, the surrogate was like – she had the healthiest lifestyle ever. And the kids are, like, perfectly healthy – like, perfect height and weight, all that. Doctor said so and everything.”

(Ryan just took them to their annual check-up. Fuck, what _has_ Michael been doing lately? That’s normally his thing.)

“But you let them have these like huge second slices _and_ soda And you didn’t even make them finish their vegetables first, I had to, and they were totally impossible last night at bath time, so thanks for that, by the way. But yeah, kind of getting off track . . .  you know my baking kicks ass because you had _thirds_ after putting the kids to bed. I _saw_ you.”

(It _was_ good. And Michael totally hated himself for it after. Eating like that’s not going to help the get-back-to-ripped cause at all.)

“Yeah, all right, I liked it. A lot. Is that part of your master plan, Doggy? You wanna make me fat now? Like, Regina George style,” he kids, hoping to lighten things up at least for a moment.

(They’ve watched _Mean Girls_. But that’s, like, a sacred marital secret. Michael would never even tell his _mother_.)

“Yeah that’s exactly it. Then maybe you won’t pick up randoms at St. Peter’s anymore. You totally caught me, bro,” Ryan says sarcastically.

(He deserves that. But it _still_ stings.)

“Not that you really need my help, to be honest, dude –”

Michael barrels on, ignoring the dig, knowing it’s tit for tat. Turnabout’s fair play and all that. “But seriously, this isn’t _you_. The cooking and cleaning and the baking and learning fucking _French_ to help the kids with homework? Like, you’ve never even _wanted_ to learn French. If it’s that big of a deal, we can get Ollie a tutor. Who are you and what the fuck have you done with the real Ryan Lochte?”

“This _is_ me, man. I’m not the shitty parent or like, shitty husband you think I am, I can do things right. I can do a lot of things! So calm the fuck down.”

“I never said you _couldn’t_.”

“Except you did.”

 _Did he?_ “Just – this is like being . . . not with you. Like, if I weren’t with you, I’d have some random trophy wife who’d do everything I wanted and be the mom and like I’d never have to do anything for my kids.”

“So you admit it, that’s what you want – _voi-fucking-la_! Then what am I doing wrong _now_?”

“No, it’s not what I want. Don’t put words in my mouth, man. That would suck. That’s not the guy I know.” ( _And_ _love_ , Michael adds silently.)

“You know what then, tell me. Tell me, what _do_ you want? So maybe then I can start living up to the Ryan Lochte in your head, because right now all I do is _fail_ apparently!”

(That hurts. Before London, Ryan went through a phase where he claimed “All I Do Is Win” was his theme song. He was pretty cocky then.

That seems like a hundred years ago.

And it breaks Michael’s heart.)

“Because, you, you know, you went and got some on the side. _In this_ _house._ Remember that?”

Ryan blows out a breath before continuing, looking away, eyes over-bright. “You told me you cheated because of Istanbul. OK, I’m not going to Istanbul. _Now_ you keep trying to make me get back in the damn pool because _if not I can probably forget Istanbul_. Like, now you want me to go? Make up your mind, man!”

And it’s then that Michael realizes Ryan’s just getting warmed up. “And you called me an absentee parent, basically, man. Remember that? To hear you tell it, you’re a single parent. And with your mom, you’re the expert, dude, I know. So I’m home. And like, actually present. Like doing stuff. Because of course I wasn’t before.” Ryan rolls his eyes. “But whatever, it wasn’t enough for the Great Michael Fred _fucking_ Phelps.”

“You’re mad at me because I didn’t ask you, because I didn’t tell you about Istanbul first. You know what? I _did_ say I wanted to go four more years after Rio if I could. I said it after London, maybe you weren’t paying attention. That’s fine, man, it was a long time ago and we didn’t really talk about it after, I can’t be mad about that, I get it, I’m not – You’re right we should’ve talked about it before I said anything. I messed up. _I’m sorry_.”

He looks away then, at something Michael can’t see. “It’s just – the better things kept going in Rio, the more I thought about Istanbul, like _maybe I can, maybe I_ should. Like _I’m good, really good, better than I thought I_ could _be, especially now_. And you know, I was in the Village alone every night after my races, I didn’t get to see you till the swimming was over except for like a second in the stands with the kids and everything was crazy, so all I did when I was alone was think. Then I just said Istanbul out loud at the conference without thinking because I’d been _thinking_ about it so much and I just – I’d just started to let myself want it, OK? So I ran my mouth. I messed up big time. I’m sorry.” His voice breaks a little. “But we could’ve talked about it after.”

“But you never said anything. I know I should’ve said more after the press conference than _Totally didn’t mean to do that. But . . . you up for it, man?_ _You OK with it?_ That was dumb. But maybe you shouldn’t have said yes, Mike. Or you know, maybe that’s not fair. I know I caught you off guard probably – I caught _everyone_ off guard. I get it. You could’ve said something later, though. I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t have liked it, hearing you didn’t want me to do it because I _did_ want it, I wanted it _really bad_ , but I would’ve listened and we could’ve, you know, worked things out somehow. Because you have to, that’s what you do when you – when you’re with somebody, when you have kids. But I couldn’t – I _can’t_ – read your mind.”

(“When you – when you’re with somebody.” _When you love somebody_ , Michael’s brain supplies. He wonders if that’s what Ryan was going to say. He hopes so.)

“But really – I guess I didn’t think I was asking for all that much. And maybe I was wrong. I knew you couldn’t train with me again because you have a life, too. And we have the kids. I mean, that would’ve been great, man, but I got it. I _get it_ , OK? That was fine. Training wasn’t as good, but it was fine, you know? I’m a big boy. I don’t expect you to always drop everything for me, to do everything I want all the time. To do things _just_ how I want them. I was OK with going solo because it’s fair. I didn’t want to be _that_ selfish. But if I was and you thought I was, you should’ve _told me_.”

(Ryan’s problem is that sometimes his mouth gets ahead of him, that sometimes he speaks without thinking, without weighing the consequences.

Maybe Michael’s problem is that he thinks too much and _says_ too little.

And then it just builds up.)

Ryan looks away then, gets back up, blinking and mumbling something about the lemon squares probably having cooled off by now, and starts cutting up the pan.  Then he grabs glasses and plates from the cupboard and milk from the fridge, pours two glasses and puts a lemon square on each plate. He offers a plate and glass to Michael before going back to the counter again, his back to Michael as he bites into his own. “Mmm, another success for the Lochtenator, if I do say so myself.”

Then he turns serious again, turns back to look at Michael. “Just . . . Jesus, Mike, I don’t get you anymore. My head hurts just from trying to keep up with you, man. Like, what _do_ you want?” Ryan takes a sip of milk, giving himself a milk mustache in the process.

(He always does that. So does Lo. She gets upset when no one tells her so she can wipe it off, but it just looks so _adorable_. Michael cringes at even thinking the word adorable – he sounds like his mother – but there’s really no other word for it.

On Ryan, it looks like something else entirely and Michael resists the path that thought will lead him down if he dwells on it too long. _Not the time, not the place_.)

But he’s shaken back to reality as his brain catches up to everything Ryan just said. It’s – it’s a lot to process. Too much. Michael looks away, bites into his lemon square to avoid answering.

It tastes like sawdust in his mouth. But he takes a second bite anyway. And then a third.

In that moment, all Michael knows is that he’s not sure he gets _himself_ anymore.


	6. Keep Swimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Rio, it's only fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a very minor Mad Men spoiler – but pretty much only if you’ve never watched the show or read anything about it ever.
> 
> Even though this is supposed to be set after 2016 (post-Rio) and before 2020 (pre-Istanbul), I referenced the Obamas because I have no idea who the First Family will be then, so don’t let that trip you up!

Since they had the kids, when they do press (or anything that means traveling overnight away from home), they do a lot more of it solo so one of them can stay with the kids. They only bring Ollie and Lo every so often. (They want them to benormal, at least as normal as the children of famous parents can be, as normal as _their_ children can be). It’s usually fun stuff like a kids’ movie premiere.

Their first public (press-covered) outing as a family after Ryan moves back is the opening night of a new Disney film, with a feisty blonde heroine who reminds him of Lo. (Lo’s practically jumping up and down with excitement to see it.)

When a reporter asks him about training, about Istanbul and how that’s all going (somebody had to; in their minds, it’s a softball question, just like “how are the kids enjoying this [fill-in-blank event]?”), Ryan’s tempted (really, it’s on the tip of his tongue) to say, “It’s not. It’s over. I quit.” But he holds his peace and mumbles something vague about how “it’s going.” (Ryan 3, Impulses 1.)

This isn’t the time and place and anyway (more importantly), he’s learned his lesson about saying things to the press that he hasn’t _explicitly_ discussed with Michael _in_ _detail_. Because he can’t assume Michael can read his mind.

(Even if it’s obvious Ryan’s swimming career is over.)

\---

The shit hits the fan the next day. Gregg’s been calling and texting him since 6, leaving voicemail after voicemail asking if he's going to start training again and if not, why did he tell the press he still _is_? But he just ignores the phone, keeps his headphones in and keeps at his French vocabulary.

Then Erika calls. When Erika calls, Ryan always picks up. There was a while when he didn’t and she threatened to drop him as a client. Even though he’s her biggest client. (Probably not much longer.) He can’t afford to get on her bad side, though.  She _still_ has his Twitter hijacked.

But Ryan’s still going to mess with her a little because, well, why _wouldn’t_ he? “Bonjour!”

“Um, hello? Ryan?”

“Oui, c’est moi!”

“What are you – can you speak English, please? What’s with the French?”

“Ollie just started it in school. I’m doing some Rosetta Stone so I can, you know, help him out.”

“Cool? I was actually going to leave you a message because it’s the middle of the day and you’re supposed to be _practicing_ now.”

“About that, I’m off –”

Ryan can _hear_ her eyes narrowing.

“OK, well, I just wanted to give you a heads-up about some of the press from yesterday.”

“That’s code for _shit’s gone down_ , yeah?

“Pretty much. It’s not, like, catastrophic. But it’s kind of embarrassing.”

“But I didn’t say anything stupid. Or do anything stupid. I mean, it was a kids’ movie premiere!”

“Not for you.”

“So . . .”

“For Michael.”

His heart starts pounding so loud he swears he can _hear_ it. Oh God, they can’t, they can’t have –

“Go on Perez, Ry.”

Oh thank _Jesus_. If it were _that_ , Erika wouldn’t be asking him to go on Perez Hilton. She’d probably be, like, _Is it true, Ryan? I need to know so I can spin it and fix it, you need to tell me, babe._ And _Oh, I’m so_ sorry, _Ry, don’t worry, I’ll take care of_ everything. And _I won’t let them bother you, I promise,_ all in crisis control mode, even if the press obviously _would_ bother him if Michael’s affair became, like, public knowledge.

Oh God, Erika was putting it mildly. It’s fucking mortifying.

The angle and lighting don’t help. It’s pretty much the most unflattering picture _ever_. (And if Ryan, biased as he is, has no choice but to admit it, other people will probably be brutal.)

The caption is worse: _Dory is right! Keep swimming, because_ this _is what happens when you don’t! 22-time Olympic medalist Michael Phelps (aka The Greatest Olympian of All Time) needs to step it up or his hubby, ever-delicious fellow Olympian Ryan Lochte, is gonna step_ out! _”_ (Which, _irony_. He closes his eyes for a second at the thought and takes a breath.) _Lookin’ good (not)_ is “scrawled” in the corner of the picture in the usual messy white “handwriting.”

Honestly, it’s a hell of a lot meaner than something you’d normally see on Perez. (He probably couldn’t resist the “keep swimming” quip. But that _and_ the reference to cheating hit a little too close to home – and, even though Perez couldn’t know it, _totally_ below the damn belt.) Michael’s going to hate it. Who wouldn’t?

“Shit, Erika, it sucks.”

“I just thought you should know, because people have kind of run with it because, _hello_ , Michael Phelps? I mean, there’s nothing I can really do about it, other than, you know, saturate the media with other stuff about you guys, maybe the kids . . .”

“I’ll – I’ll handle it. I mean, with him at least. I guess. I mean, what am I supposed to say?”

“Be gentle. Good luck, hun.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

 _Be gentle?_ Erika has no idea. Pretty much nothing they say to each other can be taken at face value anymore. And this? Well, Ryan’s already been not exactly nice on this particular subject. But Michael _did_ start it . . .

\---

Just as Ryan was pouring some more cereal, Michael piped up: “You know, Doggy, not sure you really need that. Gotta keep your weight down for training. You’ve been slipping.” Pause. “And it shows.”

It's a slap in the face, a fucking sucker punch, no other words for it. Ryan immediately thinks of stupid teeny tiny fucking Mary-the-Londoner-with-the-fellowship (and the _first_ time he’d seen her) and how he had to play nice with her at St. Peter’s the night before when all he wanted to do was punch her or Michael or just get the hell _out_. 

(Or maybe like, go fucking _cry_ if he was, like, a woman.

Which apparently is what Michael wants now.)

Not even seeing Michael squirm was worth _that_.

But last night he could _hear_ Erika in his head: _Because_ _you can’t make a spectacle of yourself, Ryan, you’re a_ role model _– you represent this_ country _and you just_ can’t. _Because the sponsors would be angry._ Not to mention, most importantly, it was the kids’ _school_ and he wasn’t about to ruin that for them.

(Ryan 4, Impulses 1.)

And it just . . . he's not training, he's not _going_ to, so . . . but he still can’t forget it.

When it comes down to it, Ryan has two things going for him, the only two things anybody ever praises him for: his swimming and his looks. He no longer has swimming. And if his _looks_ are going to shit, what does he have anymore?

If Michael's right, what the fuck makes him attractive now?

He pretty much _runs_ to the gym. (And is huffing and puffing and out of breath and it's just _embarrassing_ , because _Jesus_ , he is – _was_ , he reminds himself, _was,_ not _anymore_ – an Olympic athlete. But not that long ago, for Christ’s sake.)

Not all that long ago, after London, all the women and half the men in America wanted to sleep with him. Probably some of them still do. (God, even in his head, that sounds douchey. But it’s not untrue. It was in _Jezebel_ , after all, and God knows they hate everything Ryan Lochte stands for.

Even if they would totally fuck him given the opportunity.)

Ryan's going to get back there if it _kills_ him.

(Fuck itty bitty Mary who probably weighs a hundred fucking pounds. And, like, definitely lives off coffee and cigarettes.)

\---

It’s not like Ryan really was trying to make Michael fat or anything like that. It was a ridiculous question. (They’re joking, after all. Kind of. They don’t _really_ joke anymore.) He's not a complete asshole, no matter how humiliating Mike’s stupid remark was. Yeah, he's cooking and baking and doing pretty much every fucking domestic thing you could ever fucking think of, everything he ever saw his mother do as a kid and then some, but it's about being there for his family, about doing things _right_ for the kids, not some ulterior fucking motive.

(Except maybe being home as much as possible so Michael can’t bring anybody _else_ into their damn house.)

But still . . .

“You know my baking kicks ass because you had _thirds_ after putting the kids to bed. I _saw_ you.”

(That's not like Mike at all, but lately . . .)

“Yeah, all right, I liked it. A lot. Is that part of your master plan, Doggy? You wanna make me fat now? Like, Regina George style,” Michael laughs awkwardly.

(Jeah, they watched Mean Girls. Once. OK, maybe four times. OK, _actually_ he's lost count. But that's, like, a sacred marital secret. Ryan would never even tell his _mom._ )

"Yeah that's exactly it. Then maybe you won't pick up randoms from St. Peter's anymore. You totally caught me, bro." Pause. "Not that you really need my help, to be honest, dude -" It's not nice, but Ryan still hasn't forgotten _his_ turn. And it's not exactly a lie.

\---

Now, Ryan legitimately feels bad about that remark; he only said it two days ago and he’s _sure_ Michael will remember, maybe not as much as _he_ remembers what _Michael_ said, but still.

( _Normally_ , he’s the one who lets shit roll off his back, while Michael just dwells.

And having something like that in print’s more embarrassing for sure, but hearing it from your husband is worse somehow, when it comes down to it.)

The last thing he wants to do is tell Michael himself, but he doesn’t want him to hear it from somebody else – well-intentioned or otherwise.

So he has to.

Michael reacts exactly as Ryan expects him to: doesn’t say a word, but his cheeks and ears flush brick red. (Just like Ollie when he’s embarrassed in front of that girl from his class he has a crush on, no matter how many times he insists to his friends that _girls have cooties._ ) He gets up and walks upstairs. (Ryan would bet his entire medal haul from Rio he’s getting on the scale in the master bath – assuming it still _has_ a scale. He hasn’t been there since _before_ – before everything.) About 10 minutes later, Michael comes back down the stairs. “I’m heading out.”

“Man, I –”

“Just, I’ll see you later, all right?”

If Ryan knows Michael at all . . . he idly starts searching “healthy recipes” on Google and wonders what exactly will be on Mike’s new goal sheet.

(He tries not to let his mind wander back to itty bitty Mary . . . Michael wouldn't go see her _now_ , would he?)

\---

Ryan cuts back on baking sweets for the kids, except some recipes that substitute a lot of the unhealthy fats and sugars with stuff like applesauce.

(Even Nathan approves and he starts babbling about how Michelle would approve too, because Nathan thinks he’s BFFs with the First Lady ever since she asked him to help with Let’s Move. Most times Nathan brings her up, Michael will be like, “Man, Barack called me _and_ tweeted me, remember, that was _so cool_ , dude, it was awesome.” Ryan will tell them it’s not respectful to refer to them by their first names, because _his_ mother taught him good manners and to respect his elders. Then he’ll sulk a little because apparently he’s not cool enough for the First Family.)

If Michael’s cutting back, so will the three of them. They haven’t talked about it much, but, still, Ryan’s making it a team effort. (And it’s not exactly going to hurt him either.)

The kids are resistant, honestly downright bratty about it. (It doesn’t help that Michael’s regularly been letting them have extra sweets and soda, since pretty much the second Ryan moved out and they got used to it, which Ryan’s actually really _pissed_ about because it’s just so hypocritical. But he already said his piece about that and it’s not going to happen anymore, so why re-fight old battles?)

Things start to go more smoothly a couple days after the Perez incident, once Nathan has a nice long chat with the twins when he’s dropping Charlie off on his way to Blind Date Number 4,177. (That’s what it feels like, anyway).

Apparently Nathan is some, like, Healthy Lifestyle Prince Charming/Bratty Kid Whisperer or something, because he manages to talk Ollie and Lo into getting with the new-family-diet-program.

Anyway, it’s nice having Charlie around. The kids have missed spending time with him outside school because Missy’s all but stolen Michael and Ryan’s role as date night babysitters. (Which sucks, because they’ve been missing out on all Nathan’s _fucking hilarious_ stories. He’s probably just being considerate, like giving them space because of how recently the separation was and everything.) They'll have to do something about that, though; newcomer's gotta learn her place in the lineup. (Never mind that Ryan considers Missy pretty much a little sister now; _no one_ messes with bro time.

Maybe Charlie’s a good example or maybe the kids just want to behave better because they don’t want to ruin having one of their best friends over, but it’s a good night.

(Maybe it’s better because Michael and Ryan make an extra effort to be more-than-civil with company around.)

Later that night, when the Three Musketeers are sound asleep, Michael mentions that he’s talked to Gregg about working out at UF; he’s going to rearrange his schedule some to make it work because he really does need the workouts.

“Good. That’s good. Good for you,” Ryan says evenly.

“Will you go with me? I know you’ve been away from the pool for a while, but I could use the help and –”

“Michael –”

Michael looks him right in the eye. “Remember Rio?”

“That’s not fair, throwing it in –”

“I’m not. I’m just saying we were good together. We worked well together. Help me? I know you don’t owe me anything, especially now, but – it would mean a lot to me. This is important.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Please?”

“I –”

“And anyway, you need to get out of the house more, Ry, besides the running and driving the kids to school and stuff.” (He’s been doing weights in their home gym. It's massive.) “I’m starting to worry about you. You’re gonna go from June Cleaver to Betty Draper and that would be, in your words, _Bad News Bears_. Betty’s kind of a bitch.”

(Betty Draper kind of has _reason_ to be a bitch. After all, how many times did Don cheat on her?

He doubts that’s what Michael wants him to zero in on.)

But . . . Ryan had asked what Michael wanted. Of all things, Michael _wants_ to get back in the pool. He _wants_ Ryan to come with him. Ryan may not want to get back in the pool, but marriage is about compromises, jeah? (That’s one of Mom’s Rules for a Good Marriage. Not that that helped his parents’ marriage, but that’s not something to dwell on either.)

And anyway, it’s not training, not Istanbul. It’s just helping Mike get back in shape to avoid future Perez incidents.

After Rio, it’s only fair.

( _Isn’t it?_ )

 

 

  



	7. It's a Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right now, he seems to be giving Ryan very few reasons to stay faithful.

When the Perez picture makes its way around the Internet (the world), it’s humiliating enough to slap Michael out of his recent apathy.

His first thought: God, he looks fucking _disgusting_.

His second thought: The caption’s so exquisitely ironic that he wonders if Perez Hilton has spies in Gainesville. It makes him feel even worse.

 

 

(And it won’t exactly help him sleep better at night, since it _is_ something he actually does worry about. Like, not specifically because of how he looks – though this is admittedly not his finest hour – but just in general, lately.)

  
  
The rational part of him knows it’s lit badly and taken at the most unflattering angle humanly possible, but he also knows he’s one of those unfortunate people who can lose or gain like two pounds and it’s noticeable, even at optimal fitness. And Michael’s gained a hell of a lot more than _that_. He’d ask how this happened, except he knows.

(And by the way, for the shit he gave Ryan to light a fire under his ass for Istanbul, Ryan _definitely_ doesn’t have that problem. _Ryan_ gained _thirty fucking pounds_ after Beijing and you could barely even _tell_. When he copped to it in an interview, everyone was like, “The fuck? You gained weight?”

It’s really unfair.

Not that the stuff he said to Ryan was fair either, so this is probably karma kicking in – even if he _was_ doing it for Ryan's own good.

 _The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Michael_. No shit, Mom.

He’s such a mama’s boy he feels bad for even thinking that.)

Michael also knows he needs to do something extreme to fix it.

The first thing he does is head to Nathan and pretty much demand a rigorous (yet realistic) meal plan. Nathan being Nathan, he not only cancels his plans to see him immediately but also resists the urge to say _I told you so_ or _you remember those_ looks _I kept giving you when you stuffed your face with sweets?_ He doesn’t even take Michael’s foul mood personally, merely nodding in all the right places and agreeing that Perez Hilton is the world’s biggest jerk.

Michael uses _much_ stronger language.

(For the record, Nathan canceling anything is a Big Fucking Deal because he’s so busy with Charlie and med school. Plus all those blind dates.

And then there’s working with the First Lady on Let’s Move.

The one thing Nathan can’t stop bringing up – besides Charlie, of course – is getting to work with _Michelle_. If it were anyone else, Michael would call it bragging. The only thing on display at his place beside his diplomas and photos of Charlie is a picture of the two of them with the First Family on the White House lawn.

Michael may or may not bring up the President every time Nathan brings up the First Lady, which – awesome, obviously. Barack is a total bro. Ollie and Lo will definitely get to meet him soon.

Ryan gets pissed – hilariously so – when Nathan and Michael call the President and the First Lady by their first names because, like, Ike and respect the First Family and Southern manners or something.

For Christ’s sake, it took _ages_ before Ryan called _Michael’s mother_ anything but “Mrs. Phelps” and then “Mrs. Debbie,” which she found exasperating and sweet in equal measure. “He’s so polite, Michael. It’s nice,” she said, giving her son the side-eye – like _, why aren’t_ you _that polite_?

Michael wanted to roll his eyes and say _East Coast upbringing_ , but resisted the temptation because even as a grown man, he’s not about sassing – Ryan’s word for it – his mother. And if he were, she would _end_ him. His mother might love him unconditionally, she might be the best mother in the world, but she doesn’t take shit from anybody.

“But I think we’re past polite, he’s family,” she concluded, deciding she was going to win Ryan over to her way of thinking. After that, Ryan didn’t stand a chance.

That had been before they got married, before they were even close to that, but Mom _knew_ , even then.)

Once they finish talking nutrition, Nathan shifts to the exercise portion of the plan, asks what he might want to do.

Michael doesn’t even need to think about it. Get back in the pool, like seriously. Not like, Olympic training level, but as close as he can handle. Masters or something? He’ll figure it out. He’ll have to work at it, but it’s what he wants to do. What he has to do, what he needs to do because, like it or not, it’s what works.

And then keep up a reasonable workout once he’s gotten back in decent shape. He’s not unrealistic enough to expect he can get back to and stay in peak Olympic shape into his later 30’s and beyond, especially since he stopped competing years ago (even if he did train with Ryan for Rio).

He just wants not to be dragged through the mud by _fucking Perez Hilton_ , for a start.

And, you know, it would be great if Ryan still thought he was attractive, too.

(And if Ryan agreed to work out with him. Because Michael still hasn’t entirely given up on getting him back in the pool, no matter how stubbornly he insists on staying out of it.)

Because Michael’s never been particularly good-looking, to be honest. Like, not hideous, obviously, but not like . . . hot either. Decent. Average, except really fit? (Well, not currently.) He’s not exceptionally anything other than being the best Olympic athlete ever, which would probably impress anyone ever _except_ Ryan. He’s never really known what Ryan does see in him.

And after what he did, he’s obviously glad Ryan came back, but he has no idea why hedid.

No, that’s a lie – the kids. It always comes back to Ollie and Lo.

But Michael doesn’t want things to be just about Ollie and Lo. He loves their kids more than life, more than _anything_ , but he wants their marriage to be about _them_ , too.

He has no idea how, though. And it keeps him up at night – partly, selfishly – because he worries someday Ryan will just _crack_ and leave again, for good. He’s not blind; he can see how much Ryan is overcompensating for all his perceived faults since he got back. ( _And by_ perceived, _you mean faults_ you _told him he had_ , a mean little voice in his head whispers.) Someday, the pressure of trying to be all things to everyone except himself – Super Dad and Suzie Homemaker, when the real Ryan is only one of those things and still human – might be too much. _And then he’ll_ leave, the mean little voice continues.

Or Ryan might stay, but – but . . . _If you did it, you can think it_ , _chicken shit_ , says that same mean little voice. _Cheat_. Now that he’s done it, now that he’s betrayed Ryan and broken his trust pretty much forever, Michael constantly worries about getting his just desserts. He worries about _Ryan_ cheating. Even as he knows how hypocritical it is, to the point of being laughable, he knows that it would just _break_ him.

( _Like_ you _broke_ Ryan, the mean little voice pipes up as old thoughts resurface to haunt him . . .

 _What defines Ryan Lochte_ now _?_ )

Right now, he seems to be giving Ryan very few reasons to stay faithful.

\---

Michael’s stunned when Ryan actually agrees to get in the pool again, to help him out. (He thought he would, he hoped he would, but for all his bluster – it wasn’t a sure thing and he’s definitely relieved.)  It’s a hard sell, Ryan’s obviously wary, but he ultimately agrees.  And that’s all that matters.

( _Probably so you’ll stop being an_ embarrassment, the mean little voice returns. Michael shakes his head to stop the thought, to avoid thinking about how he looks next to his husband right now. When he’s in good shape, it’s fine, it works, they fit _,_ but now . . .

And the thing is, his well-intentioned but douchey needling aside, Ryan is still – really there are no other words for it, no matter how girly it sounds – fucking _beautiful_.)

Michael hopes . . . he hopes a lot of things.

They’re going to start after the holiday.

\---

The next night, when he hears Ryan’s car pulling into the driveway, Michael jumps up. The minute the front door starts to open, he can’t help it. He was so –

“Ryan! RYAN!”

“What, Michael? Why are you _yelling_? You’re gonna wake the kids. It’s late,” Ryan looks irritated.  And disheveled.

“Yeah, it is! Where were you? You weren’t here when I got home with the kids but you’re _always_ here so I called and _texted_ you and your phone was off and you missed dinner, and the kids’ baths and bedtime, and it’s so fucking _late_ , Ryan. Where the fuck _were_ you? I was worried.”

Ryan pulls his phone out. “I – I guess my phone died, I didn’t notice. Sorry. But I left you a note, man. On the counter.”

Michael raises an eyebrow at the empty counter. Ryan is the one who spots it, the small square of green notepaper, personalized with his initials. (It’s part of a stationery-and-sketchbook set Kristin’s kids gave their _favorite_ uncle for his last birthday. Michael tries not to remember that the sketchbook’s still sitting unused on the shelf.)

The note probably fell on the floor before Michael got home. He’s partly surprised he didn’t notice it (since it’s literally _the_ _only thing_ out of place in the kitchen), but with the pandemonium earlier, he’s not that surprised.

(Before, it was Michael that the kids behaved best for. He was the bad cop, the stern parent, the primary parent – the one who got called if the kids were sick, who dropped them off at lessons, the one who went to most PTA meetings. Yeah, Michael Phelps at _PTA meetings_. Who would have thought? He misses being that parent more than he thought he would.

But now that Ryan is home nearly 24/7, he rules the roost and Ollie and Lo know they can’t put a toe out of line because he’s not going to forget it. Or let _them_ forget it. Yeah, they might be difficult and brat out sometimes, but they don’t actually actively misbehave. For Ryan, anyway.)

“What’s it say?” Michael asks, knowing how stupid he sounds.

Ryan doesn’t literally read it to him, but holds it out to him and tells him the gist of the situation, “I was at the Dwyers’. Conor’s out of town. But Evan hit his head and needed stitches and Elizabeth needed somebody to stay at the house so she could take him to the emergency room. Hustled my ass over there. That’s it.”

Michael lets out a sigh of relief, not catching Ryan’s curious look as he roots around in the cupboard. “Oh OK. How is he?”

“He’s fine. Probably won’t even have a scar. That’s it. So now I’m back. It’s all good.”

“Yeah, good. I’m glad everything’s OK. If you’re hungry, there’s food in the fridge, we went out –”

“ _Michael_ –”

He knows where that’s going. “The salad place, dude, it’s fine. We all got salads. Got you a chicken Caesar. I even convinced Lo to eat the one with, like, the oranges.” It hadn’t been easy.

“Oh yeah, I see it. But I had something at Conor’s. Thanks anyway,” Ryan says as he pours a glass of water. “Seriously though, why did you just freak the fuck out, Mike? I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself, it’s not like I left the kids hanging, you were picking them up today. What’s the matter?”

Michael puts down the granola bar he was about to bite into. It’s _granola_ , he thinks, feeling annoyed. But still. _No food after 10, Michael_ , he remembers Nathan saying. _Stay hydrated. Sometimes people think they’re hungry when really they’re thirsty._ Instead, he grabs his own glass of water and sticks the granola back in the cupboard.

It’s stuff he’s known for years. But clearly he needs the reminders.

Michael doesn’t bring the glass to his lips. Instead, for once in pretty much forever, he just starts talking, (mostly) doesn’t censor himself. “I’m – I’m sorry. I just – you weren’t here and it was late and you weren’t answering your phone. And – and ever since you came back, all the time, I just – I can’t stop thinking about you – about you doing what I did. I know it’s –”

It takes a moment for Ryan to realize what he’s talking about. “You think I’m going to _cheat on you_?” Ryan asks disbelievingly, sounding more offended than Michael’s ever heard him sound, like Michael had just insulted Ike. (Or their _kids_.)

He takes a couple sips of water, suddenly really wishing he’d stuck with the granola when he had the chance. “Um –”

Ryan sits down at the island, elbows on the counter, gestures for him to do the same. Michael follows his lead, sits across from him, still drinking his water, and waits as Ryan just looks at him silently for what feels like forever. “I couldn’t.” Pause. “You know one thing I thought, Mike, sitting in the car just trying to, like, breathe right and not have a fucking breakdown? I thought my life was _over_. I mean, I remembered Ollie and Lo, I did, but before that – I just – all I could think was _this is what dying feels like_.”

Speaking of dying, it kills him to hear Ryan talk like that. “Ryan, I –”

“And after – at my stupid rental, seeing that fucking bitch at St. Peter’s again and wondering _what does she have that I don’t_ and just – everything else _?_ You fucking _wrecked_ _me_ , Mike. Sometimes I hate you, but – but I still don’t think I could do that to you.”

( _Sometimes I hate you_. No matter how well-deserved it is, it’s like a punch to the kidneys.

 _But I don’t think I could do that to you_ . He’s grateful. But . . . it’s not like he needs another reminder of much _better_ a person Ryan is.)

Michael makes a noise, not sure what to say to that, but feeling like he should say _something_. He takes a couple gulps of water instead.

But he doesn’t need to, because Ryan continues, “And I’ve been meaning to say this, it’s been bothering me, but you – you’re – _you’re_ not doing that to _me_ again. Ever again. I –”

“Ry, I wouldn’t –” (Never again.)

“Except you did.”

Michael can’t argue the point. “I did. I’m sorry.”

“And you better not have – damn it, you haven’t seen her again, have you? And if you did, it fucking stops now, because seriously, I came back even after what you –”

“I haven’t, I swear. I won’t, I wouldn’t even want to.”

“And you won’t do it again with anybody else, either. Because you’ll regret doing that to ourfamily. To our kids. I will _make you_ regret it. I came back for them, man. Otherwise, I don’t think I would’ve. I mean, I _do_ l –” Ryan stops, seeming to think better of whatever he was about to say.

( _I_ do _l_ – . . . love _you?_ Michael’s getting ahead of himself – way, way ahead of himself. That’s not something he’s hearing again anytime soon. If ever.

No, he can’t think like that, because otherwise . . . )

“But I’m not a fucking doormat. I won’t do it again. You cheat _again_ and either I kick you out or take the kids and go, because people make mistakes, even big ones, I get that, I’m not a saint, _obviously_ I made huge mistakes of my own, man, but cheating a second time – obviously that means you don’t give a fuck about any of us. And the kids deserve better.”

_You deserve better, too. Don’t sell yourself short._

“Because I just told you what would happen if you did, so you can’t, like, say ignorance.”

Plead _ignorance, babe_. “I –” (Irrationally, Michael _really_ wishes he had that granola. He is in _so_ over his head right now.)

Ryan cuts him off, which may be just as well because just the _thought_ of Ryan leavingfor good and taking the kids makes his heart stop once his brain catches up to it, once it really sinks in. Even if Michael had considered cheating again – which he hadn’t – the thought would’ve stopped him cold. “If those conditions don’t work for you, then lawyer up, because I _will_ divorce your ass. I will get you served with papers so fast your head will spin. I don’t want to do that to the kids, that’s why I came back, but growing up in a house where adultery’s not even a thing, like not even a big fucking deal, that would be even worse, because what kind of example is that? And we’d all be fucking miserable and my kids are _not_ gonna grow up like that. So . . . your choice, Mikey.”

“What do you _think_ I’d choose?” Even after everything, after what he did, Michael’s offended that Ryan thinks there’s a choice to make.

“I _thought_ I knew, but you did what you did, man, and I never thought you’d do _that_.”

“I’m sorry. And of course, of course I _agree_ , of course those conditions _work for me_ because I want our family to stay together. Because I l –” ( _Not the time, not the place._ ) “I’m _sorry_. I’m sorry I cheated. I’m sorry I did that to you, I’m sorry I did that to the kids. And I won’t again, ever. No matter what, I mean that. I _do_.” Michael means that with everything he has in him. He hopes Ryan can hear it.

“OK. OK. Good. And I – I accept your apology, man. Thanks. But I, I mean, I don’t know if I can, like – get over it – if I can –” Ryan takes a deep breath. “Anytime soon. But I hope so. At least – at least I’ll try to – I won’t keep bringing it up, even if I get mad, OK? I know that’s not much but –”

It’s a start.


	8. Use Your Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But if you want me to help you, you need to use your words and talk to me."

_Um, take a break. Lots of QT with my family, of course. Then, uh . . . uh, I think start training for Istanbul._  
  
That day in Rio, at the press conference, it takes a full second for Michael’s brain to catch up to what Ryan just so casually and unexpectedly announced. When it does, his heart drops to his stomach. Or leaps into his throat. He can’t really tell; all he knows is that it ends up somewhere other than where it’s supposed to be. He feels like he’s gotten the breath knocked out of him and all he can do is stare at Ryan and try to keep his jaw from dropping. The only reason no one notices his surprise, his dismay, his _distress_ is because Michael has more and better media training than quite possibly any (retired) professional athlete ever.  
  
But there’s one person he can’t fool: his mother. And he can feel her eyes on him the entire rest of the afternoon and evening, no matter how much he tries to avoid them as he attempts to sort out his racing thoughts.  
  
Finally, the kids go to bed under Ike’s supervision. The day – the whole week, really – having caught up to him, Ryan’s down for the count, too.  It’s then that Mom pounces, asking him to come to her room because she wants to spend some time with her boy.  
  
(Not suspicious at all.)  
  
She makes him sit, kick off his shoes, even lets him prop his feet up on the coffee table. It’s that, of all things, that suggests that she knows just how bothered Michael is. (She _hates_ feet on the coffee table, even coffee tables that aren’t hers.)  
  
His mother doesn’t talk right away; she makes hot chocolate (thank God for air conditioning) and watches him pseudo-patiently as he blows on his until it’s cooled enough to take a few sips.  
  
That’s Debbie Phelps’ way of getting her children to talk, just saying nothing until they crack under the strain of the silence and spill their guts. It works on all of them, but has never worked nearly as well on Michael as it does on Hilary and Whitney. (Women are more touch-feely, let’s-talk-about-our-feelings, after all.)  
  
Finally, the silence starts to get to _her_. “How are you, Michael?”  
  
“I’m fine, Mom. How are you?”  
  
“Michael.”  
  
“Wh – yes?”  
  
“What happened today?”  
  
“Do you really need a walk-through?  I know it was a long day, but still, is your memory going or s–”  
  
“Michael Fred, do not try to play dumb with me. I know I didn’t raise a stupid child. You know exactly what I mean. I _saw_ you at the press conference today. When Ryan –”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Everyone was shocked. I was absolutely shocked. But what _floored_ me was that _you_ looked so shocked. I didn’t understand that. I know you and I know what you want and that that is not what you want, so I was very surprised that Ryan is going to do this, but why was it such a surprise to you?”  
  
“I . . . I –” He settles for staring wordlessly at her before sitting back.  
  
“Why was that, Michael?”  
  
“I didn’t know either,” he mumbles.  
  
“So you’re telling me Ryan announced his intention to go for another Olympics, to continue swimming for another _four years_ without asking your opinion, without discussing it with you, without at the very least telling you that this is what he wants and that he’s going for it and was going to say so publicly?”  
  
He grits his teeth, suddenly angry even if he knows none of this is his mother’s fault. “ _Yes_ , Mom.”  
  
“That’s not considerate or, really, appropriate at all.”  
  
“You think?” he snaps.  
  
“ _Michael_.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
The silence stretches on. Finally: “How do you feel about that?”  
  
Michael has no idea why it’s that psychiatrist’s-couch question of all things that makes him open his mouth, but it does. “It’s . . . unreal. I keep thinking it’s a joke. I mean, you know what he said to me after it was over? _Totally didn’t mean to do that. But . . . you up for it, man?_ _You OK with it?_ Like it's _nothing._ Like he brought home a stray dog or booked a last-minute trip or something, like it's not the next four years of our lives, of our kids' lives, like it's no big fucking deal.”  
  
His mother is apparently so glad he’s said more than a dozen words together that she doesn’t reprimand him for his language. (He tries not to dwell on what that says about the gravity of the situation.) “But it is.”  
  
“Of course it is, Mom! I’m done. I’ve been done. You know that, even if you’ve never been happy with it.” She makes a noise of protest at that, even though they both know it’s true. “I thought Ryan knew that, too. But I love him and I want him to be happy and I always have. He always said he would do Rio and after London I absolutely understood that, so I got behind him. You know I did.”  
  
“I do know.”  
  
“But now – this is so – I can’t even believe this. I can’t believe him.”  
  
“You need to talk to him. But I know you and I know that getting you to talk can be like pulling teeth. But that sort of decision, as you already said, affects all four of you, not just him. How he moves forward from now needs to be a joint decision, a decision you _discuss_. Ryan’s impulsive, but he does mean well, so I do think he’ll listen, he’ll respect those concerns, but you need to bring them up, OK?  I mean, you’re not going to see eye-to-eye on this, clearly, but there needs to be a discussion because this is _not_ something to be taken lightly.”  
  
“You’re right, Mom.”  
  
“Do you need any help? Advice, maybe? I know –”  
  
“You’ve already done plenty. Really. Thanks.” She just looks at him until he nods and stands, accepting her hug before kissing her on the cheek with a “Good night, Mom.”  
  
\---  
  
“Ryan?”  
  
“No, Mom, it’s me again.”  
  
“Oh. Why? Lauren always puts Ryan on the phone when we’re done; you know we like to catch up. Give him the phone.”  
  
“Ryan is – Ryan . . . he moved out.”  
  
“What do you mean _he moved out_?”  
  
“We separated.”  
  
“Michael, how? Why?” His mother sounds distraught. “What did he _do_?”  
  
“It’s not like – it’s not what you – Istanbul.”  
  
“Istanbul? What about Istanbul?” Now she’s confused. “When Ryan moved forward with that, and you told me you weren’t going to train with him this time, I assumed you worked it out, I assumed that was the compromise – he would still get to do it but you wouldn’t have to be involved. Not perfect, but realistic. Like most compromises. What happened?”  
  
“I – things weren’t working, Mom.”  
  
“Oh honey.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“What are you apologizing to _me_ for, Michael? I feel terrible that you’re going through this.”  
  
“Thanks but – I just – I don’t wanna talk about it.”  
  
“Michael –”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“If you insist.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Well,” she sighs. “I’m here for anything you need, if you want me to come down to –”  
  
“No, it’s fine; I’ve got things under control.” (Not really, but Michael’s not about to bring his mother down to Florida; that would be like replacing Ryan, making permanent a situation he hopes with every fiber of his being won’t last forever.) “And uh – I’ve gotta go. We’ll talk again soon.”  
  
She sighs again. “All right. I know things must be hard right now, but . . . just remember that I love you.”  
  
“Love you, too. Bye.”  
  
\---  
  
“Mom?” Michael asks one morning, having finally gotten some time alone in the house to call her.  
  
“Yes, honey?”  
  
“Can we talk?”  
  
“Always.”  
  
“You’re not busy?”  
  
“There’s nothing that can’t wait.”  
  
He takes a deep breath. “I – I need your help, Mom. If I tell you something, will you – will you promise not to hate me?”  
  
(He couldn't bear it if she did; there are only a few things that are incontrovertible facts in this world, among them “the sky is blue,” “grass is green,” “the Earth revolves around the sun” and “Mom loves me.”)  
  
“I could never.”  
  
“I think you might.”  
  
“You’re my son and nothing you do could _ever_ make me hate you. I might be upset or angry or even disappointed, but I could never feel that way about you.”  
  
(She has no idea.)  
  
“Love isn’t the opposite of hate, Mom,” he responds, knowing how bizarre the response is even as he says it.  
  
But she goes with it, lightly, “It’s indifference, I know. I’m an educator, Michael, I know these things.” She pauses, serious again. “But anyway, I will always love you, no matter what you tell me.”  
  
He takes a deep breath in preparation. (But how can you really prepare to drop this sort of bombshell?) “You remember when you asked me why we separated, why Ryan moved out and I said Istanbul?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I – I lied.” ( _A lie by omission is still a lie, Michael._ ) “I didn’t tell you the whole story, Mom. And I’m sorry.”  
  
He can hear her breathing on the other end. “What actually happened?”  
  
“I – I – God, Mom, I can’t.”  
  
She takes a deep breath now. “I will wait as long as you need, Michael, but obviously you want to tell me, if you’re making a point of calling me and telling me that you left things out of that conversation. Take your time.”  
  
After what feels like an eternity, he admits, “It was me.”  
  
“What was you?”  
  
“The separation was my fault. Entirely my fault.”  
  
“There are two people in a marriage; you can’t blame yourself for e –”  
  
“I can. And I do.” He can _hear_ her tense on the other end.  
  
“Why?”  
  
Somehow he thinks she knows before he says the words, even if she doesn’t want to believe it. “I cheated, Mom. I cheated,” he all but whispers, too embarrassed to be saying it to his _mother_ to raise his voice to normal speaking volume.  
  
She inhales sharply. “ _Michael!_ ”  
  
“And now everything’s awful. Having Ryan gone was awful, but then he came back because Ollie ran away – ”  
  
She gasps at that, “Oh my God, Oliver _ran aw_ –”  
  
“He only went to Nathan’s, thank God, but that really was the worst, Mom, I’ve never been so scared in my entire life. I thought we were never gonna see him again; I don’t even know what we would’ve done. I would’ve _died_ ,” he tells her. Just the thought paralyzes him, even now. “And now . . . it’s just – everything’s wrong. I don’t know if I can fix it and I want to so bad but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know how. I feel like I ruined everything. I ruined our family and Ryan – Ryan most of all.” He pauses, chest tight. “And now you probably hate me.” He closes his eyes, the mere thought physically painful.  
  
“Oh _Michael_. I don’t – I don’t, I couldn’t, but – but I don’t understand. Oh Ryan must – How could you?” (How _could_ he? He can’t even try to answer that.) “Did you . . . did you love this other man?”  
  
“Woman.”  
  
“Oh. Oh.” She pauses, clearly taken aback. “But . . . still, Michael, did you? _Do_ you?”  
  
“No.” He doesn’t hesitate; he knows the answer to that question like he knows his own name.  
  
“Then _why_ – why would you do it? Why would you risk everything? You’ve always been so responsible. I just –”  
  
“Mom, it’s just – I – Ryan – I –”  
  
“If you say _Istanbul_ again without elaborating I will strangle you through the phone line with my pantyhose,” his mother interrupts before softening again. He can’t see it, but he can _feel_ it, somehow. “I love you, I always will, God help me, even if I don’t understand you right now, even if I’m not sure I recognize you as the man I raised. I may never – will probably never – understand this, but I will help you to the best of my ability. Because you are my son and I love you. But if you want me to help you, you need to use your words and _talk to me_.”  
  
“I know I asked but I – I can’t.”  
  
“I’ll wait.”  
  
“No, you don’t understand –”  
  
“I do. I know you. I don’t necessarily mean today, I mean whenever. The sooner you do, the better, but I will always pick up the phone, whatever the hour.”  
  
“I – Thanks, Mom. I – I love you.”  
  
“Love you too.”  
  
He counts himself lucky that there’s no one home to see him when he gets off the phone.  
  


 


	9. Say Jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You say jump, he asks how high – that’s the way you like it, isn’t it?"
> 
> This chapter walks us back to a conversation that was mentioned in chapters 6 and 7.

Since some over-awed freshman Gator ran ahead of him to let Gregg know that he’s here to see him, Michael just lets himself into the office without knocking.  
  
Despite the warning, Gregg can’t hide his surprise. But it’s obvious when Michael’s sudden appearance really catches up to him. His gaze cools significantly enough to make the room itself feel colder as he leans back in his chair. Michael fights the urge to shiver.  
  
( _Show no weakness_ , he tells himself in a voice that sounds a lot like Bob. He wonders idly what, if any, advice from Gregg plays in Ryan’s mind in moments of crisis.)  
  
Gregg doesn’t invite him to sit, so he doesn’t. It’s like being in the principal’s office all over again (which is an especially bizarre feeling now that he’s a grown man with school-age children of his own), except worse.  
  
Michael shouldn’t be – isn’t – surprised by the icy reception. All Gregg’s known for weeks is that Ryan is miserable; miserable to the point of the worst swimming of his life, miserable to the point of not swimming at all. Gregg may have reached out to him at first, but it’s probably because he didn’t have much of choice.  
  
Still, sometimes Michael forgets that he while he’s known Bob longer, Ryan has, by now, been swimming with Gregg just as long as he did with Bob, that Gregg has seen Ryan from standout UF Gator to best swimmer in the world, from 18-year-old punk-ass kid to family man, has seen him _through_ everything from a torn ACL to his parents’ divorce (and _their_ separation), from the disappointment of not doing _quite well enough_ in London to triumph beyond his wildest imaginings in Rio.  
  
So Gregg’s protectiveness should come as no surprise. He silently stares Michael down, just waiting like he’s got nothing better to do, like he hasn’t got a building full of athletes, nearly all of whom require his attention.  
  
(Speaking of all those swimmers, rumors about Michael’s appearance today will spread like wildfire, no question. People will be especially curious given Ryan’s radio silence and extended unexplained absence from the club.)  
  
“Ryan needs to get back in the pool. And I want to make that happen,” he finally admits when the tense, uncomfortable silence gets to him. (Apparently Gregg is a more intimidating prospect than his mother. Michael’s not sure how to feel about that.) “But nothing I’ve done has worked. You know I already tried to make him, after you first told me he stopped coming. You know that when he wouldn’t get in the pool, I pushed him in and he’s refused to come back since. All I’ve managed to do is nag him into going back to the gym.” ( _Make him feel self-conscious enough to_ , the little voice in his head corrects. _You’re good at that_ , it adds nastily.) “He’s running, too. But that’s it. That’s all I’ve got.”  
  
Gregg sighs tiredly then, scrubbing his face and suddenly looking a thousand years old. “I’m going to be straight with you. It’s nearly impossible to make Ryan Lochte do something he doesn’t want to do. His mother knows that, his father knows that, I know that and I know you know that. I’m lucky to talk him out of _not_ doing things he shouldn’t – and the only time I actually won that battle was when it came to skydiving and sometimes I think he might’ve done that by now if it weren’t for your kids –”  
  
“Funny how they’re enough to keep him from skydiving, but not enough to keep him from Istanbul,” Michael snaps before he can stop himself, stunned at the absolute and utter inappropriateness of the remark in this place, with this person, in this _moment_.  
  
Gregg’s eyes harden at that. His voice, if possible, hardens even more. “I don’t – I can’t even – how fucking _dare you_ question his commitment to those kids?”  
  
Gregg’s not wrong to call him out on that, but Michael’s also not about to give him ammunition right now.  
  
“Again, I’m going to be blunt here and you don’t have to like it – in fact, you’re not going to like it. Anyway, if it were you in Ryan’s place, I know he’d be hearing a hell of a lot worse from Bob right now. You know what? You want me to tell you something, Michael? The bottom line is that it’s not news to me that you don’t want Ryan to do Istanbul. Maybe to other people, but it’s been obvious to me for ages. Just for that, just as a coach seeing the best athlete I’ve ever worked with completely throw himself away when he’s got so much left in him, so much more than anyone his age ought to in this sport, I should resent you. That’s once-in-a-generation staying power, and he’s wasting it and I’m pretty confident the blame for that rests nearly entirely on you and _your_ freakishly wide shoulders.”  
  
Gregg takes a deep breath. “It’s not even – forget not helping Ryan train again; that I understood. Obviously, I couldn’t like it or be happy about it, I wished you would, but it’s a big commitment when you’ve retired from the sport. I understand better than anybody that four years – eight if you did it twice – is a damn long time to invest in something you have no control over once he’s on the block, especially when you’re used to being in the driver’s seat. That I get. That’s not even – it’s just – your _face_ at meets lately is like fucking McKayla Maroney when she got that silver in London.”  
  
Michael tries not to gape. (Has he really been that obvious?)  
  
Clearly he fails because Gregg throws up his hands, exasperation evident. “Yeah, that obvious. You got your wish, Michael. Ryan’s not doing Istanbul. I have no doubt in my mind that he’s planning to retire now. He hasn’t announced it, but he knows it and I know it and you know it and I’m pretty sure the entire damn club knows it – considering how close we are to Short Courses and how long it’s been since he’s shown up for practice – even if no one has the nerve to say a word or ask me why, which is good, because I’m not sure I could answer. You should be throwing a damn party right now. So really I have no idea what you’re doing in my office telling me Ryan needs to get back in the pool. I understand even less why I tried to involve you in this in the first place. It was a huge error of judgment on my part. You’re the _last_ person I should’ve asked. In fact, I have half a mind to ask you – no, _tell_ you – to leave and ban you from my facilities for life.”  
  
Michael takes a deep breath. _He can’t_. (Really, Gregg probably actually _can’t_ , but _leave nothing to chance_ reminds the voice that sounds even more like Bob than it did when he first got here.)  “The fact of the matter is Ryan’s miserable and I can’t stand it.”  
  
“Now you care?”  
  
That cuts. Deeply. “I’ve always cared.”  
  
“Yeah sure,” Gregg scoffs.  
  
“And now I have a way to get him to come back.”  
  
Gregg suddenly looks interested, curiosity piqued despite himself. “How?”  
  
“I know you’re not big on gossip, so I’ll give you the CliffNotes version . . . I basically got called out by Perez fucking Hilton for turning into a huge slob. “Erika – you know, Ryan’s agent – told him.”  
  
(Gregg knows exactly who Erika is after all these years, but he likes to pretend he doesn’t because he’s by no means a fan. _Ryan’s damn agent always overcommits him. If it were up to her, he’d never practice – except then nobody would want to feel him up on their idiotic talk shows or have him wandering around shirtless on their teenybopper dramas anyway. She should remember that_.)  
  
“Then he was the one who broke it to me. It’s embarrassing. I’m gonna get back in the pool, work it off, but I need pool privileges. I’ll ask Ryan to help me. He may not come back for himself but –”  
  
Gregg doesn’t let him finish, interest forgotten in the face of renewed anger. “That’s so fucking manipulative. You say jump, he asks how high – that’s the way you like it, isn’t it? You can’t stand not calling all the shots. You can’t stand not being the top dog; you got used to Ryan always being one step behind, being number two to your number one. I mean, do you remember how you reacted when he _did_ beat you? But then you retired and Rio changed everything and that’s why Istanbul bothers you so much. It’s not _really_ about your family. I know how to count, so I know what 2020 could mean for Ryan and so do you and you’re _jealous_ ,” Gregg finishes in a rush, voice hovering just this side of spiteful.  
  
 _My God, he’s_ – _Jesus. Jesus_ Christ.  
  
Gregg’s clearly been holding this in for a while now. “You – You know you don’t deserve him, right? I hope you know that and if you don’t, I’m telling you, so now you do.”  
  
Michael doesn’t need Gregg to tell him that (though it _is_ on the tip of his tongue to say – among other things, many other things – _of course you’re not going to mention the fact that your beloved protégé didn’t even_ tell me _he wanted to go for Istanbul before he told the whole fucking_ world) _,_ but he only says, “You weren’t my coach, Gregg. I learned everything I know from Bob. And I’ll do whatever it takes to fix things. And if this works, so be it. You haven’t got any better ideas, have you?”  
  
“Why now? Why couldn’t you support him before? You have to see him bottom out first so you can swoop in like Superman or something? Greatest Olympian of All Time Saves the Day! Make you feel powerful, Michael?”  
  
Michael ignores the questions; there’s no way he can possibly answer them. “I’m doing this, Gregg. You in or you out?”  
  
“Fine, I’m in. But don’t hold your breath,” Gregg snaps. “You haven’t seen Ryan in the water since we went to Pan Pacs. That’s leagues away from now. You have no idea what you’re in for. Hell, _I_ have no idea what you’re in for,” Gregg adds, turning away to face his window.  
  
Michael nods curtly, even though Gregg is no longer looking at him. He didn’t expect a love fest or singing kumbaya around the fire while holding hands. He doesn’t need it. (He doesn’t need to dwell on some of Gregg’s too-honest words either.) All he needs is the _yes_ and he has it – however grudgingly it’s been given – so he’s about to leave when he hears Gregg sigh.  
  
Even though his back is to Michael, the sudden slump of Gregg’s shoulders is obvious. The wind seems to have gone out of his sails and his voice sad is when he says, “Good luck. You’ll need it.”  
  
Now, Michael actually shivers. 


	10. I Want It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want everything with you."

 

 

_I’m going to be straight with you. It’s nearly impossible to make Ryan Lochte do something he doesn’t want to do. His mother knows that, his father knows that, I know that and I know you know that. I’m lucky to talk him out of not doing things he shouldn’t – and the only time I actually won that battle was when it came to skydiving and sometimes I think he might’ve done that by now if it weren’t for your kids –_

_If it weren’t for your kids_  –

  
Michael wonders if Ryan ever imagines his life without them.  
  
\---  
  
Michael’s the one who pushes for kids when their on-again, off-again push-and-pull relationship switches permanently on.  
  
 _We’ve wasted so much time, so many years. I don’t wanna do that anymore. I want_ everything _with you_.  _I’m going to retire, I’m ready. I want it all for us._  
  
Ryan isn’t ready though. Not really. Whatever the outcome in London, he plans to continue competing and is still dogged by that irrational fear of being a bad father, of not being there for his children.  
  
\---  
  
Eventually, Ryan gives in. He’s still skittish, but he agrees.  
  
Michael does everything he can to hurry things along, throws far more money at the doctor and their (carefully vetted) surrogate than the medical procedures cost, far more than they would normally be paid for their services and associated expenses just to make sure everything goes as planned before Ryan gets spooked.

  
\---  
  
It works. It works  _quickly_. And to a greater degree than they expect.  
  
Their  _twins_  are due in October 2013.  
  
Ryan misses his chair sitting down when they find out, landing on his ass on the doctor’s otherwise spotless office floor. Michael, though equally stunned, can’t do anything but laugh once that happens, which snaps Ryan out of his shock.  
  
Apparently laughter is contagious, because they just  _look_ at each other and end up laughing so long and so hard that Dr. Montgomery and Cassie seem to seriously consider calling for straitjackets and a padded cell for two.  
  
\---  
  
Cassie is their surrogate. She’s pretty much perfect: conscientious and responsible, a recent Ivy League grad (Princeton, to be precise) possessing a sterling physical and mental health record. She’s fit and active and leads a remarkably healthy lifestyle.  
  
Cassie’s on the petite side – compared to  _them_  anyway, but aren’t most people? But she’s very pretty, with golden brown hair (the official description; to Michael, it’s just a rather familiar nearly-blonde-brown), green eyes and great bone structure.  That may not be the most important thing, but they might as well give their child the best chance of growing up attractive as humanly possible. Life is definitely easier when you’re good-looking.  
  
Her personality is as good as her looks. It’s not like they have to live with her, but it still matters because who wants to trust their baby –  _babies_  – to a shrew for nine months? Not these guys.  
  
Their child – children, as it turns out – will have nothing and no one but the best, even (especially) from the get-go.  
  
\--  
  
October 2013. That means the twins will arrive well after the uproar of Nationals and Worlds. They’ll have a nice long time just the four of them – the  _four_ of them (not just two, never again) – before any other meets or major events or any kind of interruption from the outside world.  
  
Whenever Michael thinks of October, he must look goofier than usual: his smile is so big it threatens to split his face.  
  
It’s a step up from his slight – but totally embarrassing – tears when they first found out they were going to be parents to anybody at all.  
  
Ryan just mumbles that he has something in his eye.  _Man, they really need to clean better; it’s so dusty in here, Mike._  
  
It’s the dust that makes him sniffle, of course.  
  
Or it might’ve been the roof leaking.  
  
(Later, Michael forgets the details because Ryan’s snickering – once  _he_  composes  _himself_ – at his “pretty crying” is too distracting. Annoyingly so.)  
  
\---  
  
Time passes and the excitement builds; they have so much to do to get ready, but none of it feels like a chore. He’s never been so  _happy_ ; God, it sounds so cheesy, but Michael’s pretty sure his feet haven’t touched the ground since they found out they’ll be welcoming a little boy and a little girl.  
  
(Even as he wonders what in the name of God they’ll do with a  _daughter_.  
  
Well, what they’ll do besides scare boys away from day one. Between Michael and Ryan and their son – their  _son_  – those absolutely-not-good-enough idiots won’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.)    
  
\---  
  
Michael can’t think of a single thing to wish for when he “blows out” the candle on his hastily procured birthday cupcake that year.  
  
(Ryan bought it at a bakery in the terminal and stuck a candle that they can’t actually light on it – they’d be arrested before they even touched the flame to the wick if they tried.)  
  
Only a year later and everything’s working out just like they planned.  
  
Michael makes the executive decision to skip the wish this time; their flight home from Indianapolis is about to board anyway so they need to be quick.  
  
He laughs as Ryan kisses a smear of frosting off his mouth.  
  
The stewardesses don’t because they end up being the last people to board.  
  
\---  
  
Their son’s name is a challenge. Michael pores over baby name books, A-Z, anxious because he’s more than halfway through the boys’ names and they haven’t found the right one. Or even some potential candidates. He’s taken to reading the ones that sound worth considering out loud to Ryan, who shakes his head – or sighs or roll his eyes or pulls faces – after each one. It’s frustrating and eventually he begins to read the names in a rush; it’s a waste of time because Ryan hates them all anyway.  
  
“Wait!” Ryan eventually stops him. “Do those again.”  
  
He can’t be serious. Michael had just thrown in a couple random names in with the regular ones to see if he’d notice.  
  
“Obama.” (Michael has a total man –  _bro_  – crush on the President, but no.)  
  
“October.” (It’s the month the twins will be born in, but not worthy of being a  _name_ .)  
  
“Oliver.” (Normal. Nice. Strong. Well, that’s interesting, m–)  
  
“Or–”  
  
Their eyes meet.  And that’s it.  
  
 _Oliver_ .  
  
\---  
  
Oliver still needs a middle name.  
  
They’re driving to the supermarket one day when Ryan sits up and says, “That’s it!”  
  
“Jesus  _Christ_ , Ryan! What the fuck is  _it_ ?” Ryan startled him so badly he almost slammed the breaks in the middle of moving traffic for no good reason. Michael decides to pull over because if the look on Ryan’s face is anything to go by, he’s not about to calm down anytime soon.  
  
Ryan waits until they’re parked to point at the stereo. “His name! His middle name!”  
  
Oliver’s middle name. Ryan has an idea. (That ought to be capitalized:  _An Idea_.) Michael can’t decide whether this is a good or bad thing.  
  
They’re listening to Lil Wayne. It takes him a minute to come up with Lil Wayne’s real name (Dwayne Michael Carter), one name at a time. “Dwayne?”  
  
Ryan shakes his head.  
  
“Carter? We’re not naming our son after your dog.”  
  
Another shake of the head.  
  
“Well, not Michael, because we already ruled out our names. Remember? So what then?”  
  
( _They_ have middle names after their fathers, but how would they choose? And they’d have to choose because they can’t stick Oliver with two middle names; they’re already planning on a hyphenated last name. So their names are out.  
  
They briefly considered their middle names – or Ryan’s, anyway, because Michael  _would_  sooner name their son after Ryan’s dog than his own father.  
  
Oliver Steven. It’s not a bad fit, it actually sounds good, but it’s just not right somehow. Even Ryan thinks so and it’s his father and his own middle name. So they decided to table it.)  
  
“ _Wayne,_ ” Ryan breathes reverently. “Oliver Wayne.”  
  
 _Phelps-Lochte_ . Or _Lochte-Phelps_ , his brain adds grudgingly. They still haven’t settled that. So they’ve got to make sure the names work either way. Michael’s beginning to think  _maybe_  Ryan has the right of it, but there’s no way he’ll admit it.  
  
“Okay,” he agrees. “Oliver Wayne it is.”  
  
\---  
  
Their daughter’s name is a little easier. Michael is walking the dogs when he sees a man teaching a bright-eyed little girl – his daughter, it looks like – to ride a bicycle. For some reason he’s transfixed, so he sits down on a bench and watches, ignoring the dogs’ eagerness to continue their walk until they give up and lie down by his feet.  
  
Where most kids are terrified,  _this_ girl is laughing even as she nearly loses control of the handlebars. But she’s stubborn and manages to get them straight. Eventually one attempt is so successful that she bikes more quickly and farther ahead than her father feels comfortable with. As he jogs to catch up with her, the man calls “Lauren, Lauren!”  
  
And Michael just  _knows_.  
  
Michael and Ryan agree on a neutral middle name because saddling their daughter with two (for her grandmothers) on top of a double-barreled last name would’ve been too much. (Michael personally thinks Lauren Deborah would be good – much better than Lauren Ileana, at any rate. He  _might_  even have given in on the order of the last name if they went with Lauren Deborah, because he’ll admit Lauren Deborah Lochte-Phelps sounds pretty good.)    
  
When they explain their decision to their mothers over the phone – adding that they’re still figuring out what Lauren’s middle name  _will_ be – they accept it with shocking good grace.  
  
But it should come as no surprise that Mom and Ike present them with a jointly selected middle name via Google+ hangout a week later. They have a big spiel prepared about why Lauren  _Elizabeth_  is a great name, including the many incredible women their daughter would have as namesakes, but it’s unnecessary.  
  
It just  _works_  somehow.  
  
Anyway, Michael and Ryan are both mamas’ boys. They wouldn’t have had it in them to refuse.  
  
They toast to Oliver Wayne and Lauren Elizabeth at dinner that night.  
  
\---  
  
But Oliver and Lauren arrive nearly  _two months_  early.  
  
At least the big event happens a couple days after Worlds, so they’re home in Florida rather than in Barcelona and can rush to the hospital to wait it out. They’re even in the car already – on the way to a belated birthday party. (Ryan spent his real birthday competing, as is often the case, and they’re supposed to make up for it – nothing as crazy as the slew of birthday parties he was treated to post-London, but a fun night nevertheless.) Instead, they change direction and break the speed limit (frighteningly faster than legal) on their way to the hospital.  
  
It’s terrifying. And there’s absolutely nothing they can do. Fame, fortune, accomplishments mean  _nothing_  in a situation like this.  
  
But the twins make it through just fine. (As does Cassie.)  
  
For the first time in Michael’s life, a baby’s cry is a beautiful thing.  
  
Two babies? Even better.  
  
There’s the usual ten fingers and ten toes apiece, plus a head full of light brown hair for Oliver, who’s their firstborn by five minutes. Poor Lauren, on the other hand, is completely bald because the universe apparently has a strange sense of humor.  
  
Most importantly, the twins will  _be_ fine, even if they have to spend some time in the NICU first.  
  
Not that they’ll be alone; their dads will be right there with them. Their  _dads_.  
  
Michael and Ryan spend that first night just watching the twins, so,  _so_  grateful and relieved that they’re OK after all, marveling at the fact that these perfect, tiny creatures are theirs forever. They can wait a while; Oliver and Lauren are worth it.  
  
But God, they’re so  _small_. Between their nieces and nephews, Michael and Ryan have both held plenty of babies – except these two are different because they’re  _theirs_ and God help them if they get so much as a scratch on either one. Oliver and Lauren look so fragile those first few weeks; breaking them seems like a legitimate concern.  
  
But Ollie kicks his feet pretty ferociously. (“Ollie because ollies. Duh.”)  
  
And Lo wraps her tiny little fingers so  _tight_  around their pinkies. (“Lauren’s way too long for a baby, Mike,” Ryan tells him one night, ignoring his skeptical look to look down at their daughter. “Hey, Lo,” Ryan whispers to her; before the twins, Michael didn’t know Ryan was  _capable_ of whispering. She coos in response. “See, she likes it, bro. Yeah you do, baby girl.”)  
  
When they’re ready, their dads will bring them home. (Hopefully the twins  _won’t_  be wearing one of the ridiculous outfits – complete with obnoxiously bright shoes – that Ryan’s chosen when they do.)  
  
It’s certainly not the way Michael imagined it, but it’s the four of them together just the same.  
  
It’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To give credit where credit is due: The twins’ names (and the reasoning for the nickname Ollie) come from collective brainstorming on the original ficathon thread. The bit about Oliver being born with hair, while Lo is born bald comes from a fill on the original ficathon thread about the guys freaking out over getting older. I can’t remember who wrote it, but the idea belongs to that writer. Lo holding the guys’ pinkies tight and the fact that that reassures the guys comes from mugglemiranda, whose help with this fic is invaluable.


	11. Not All That Glitters Is Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This year, right before Thanksgiving, there are the Golden Goggles.

 

November is always a busy month.   
  
There’s Thanksgiving of course, but that’s not the only thing.   
  
If there’s a December meet to swim in, there’s – there _was_ – preparation for that, of course.   
  
This year, right before Thanksgiving, there are the Golden Goggles.   
  
It’s supposed to be a fun night. In the past, it has been. But when you have children, this sort of thing – especially four days before Thanksgiving – becomes a hassle. You can’t bring them with you because they’ve still got school for two or three days and that’s a lot of time for little kids.   
  
Still, it’s tempting. Hop a flight from Gainesville (with a connection of course) to New York. Then go straight from New York to Baltimore for Thanksgiving. It’s a lot easier than going round-trip from Gainesville to New York then making another trip to Baltimore not even two days later.   
  
(But the less time Ryan spends in Baltimore, the better. He’s fucking _dreading_ Thanksgiving. Four days and four nights with Michael’s family, who probably think he’s the devil incarnate? Not his idea of a happy holiday.   
  
Forget the stuffing. Pass the vodka, please. Four fingers. Wait, make that five. No mixer or chaser, thank you very much.)   
  
Since Thanksgiving is a shorter holiday break, they always spend it with the Phelps ladies (and husbands and children) in Baltimore. Considering Michael is the one who moved far away from his family, it’s only fair.  Normally Ryan doesn’t mind; he misses his family, but he still enjoys spending time with Michael’s.   
  
(This year, though . . . Thanksgiving? Ryan would be _thankful_ for an excuse to get out of it. He wonders if he can fake a death in the family or an injury or a deadly and contagious disease – _anything_ to avoid going to Baltimore.)   
  
For Christmas, they normally host both their families, since they’ve got the space for it. It’s still a tight squeeze (Ryan’s sisters and brothers are reproducing scary fast), but they make it work. Since it’s a longer break, it makes sense for Michael’s side to make the trek down to Florida then. Anyway, December in Baltimore is even more miserably cold than November in Baltimore. (So he’s heard – but Ryan’s never been there for December; his blood would freeze in his veins if he tried.)   
  
This year, both Michael’s mother and his own have separately and _very gently_ hinted that it might be best if they pass on the big Christmas shindig, that it might put too much of a strain on them given recent events.   
  
They’ve got a point.   
  
But Ryan and Michael have yet to decide what that means for their Christmas plans. Whatever happens, they need to spend at least part of the holiday in Florida because there’s no way Mom will put up with spending Thanksgiving _and_ Christmas without her grandchildren.   
  
Ryan’s sure Debbie will still push for Maryland. (She likes to play the _but Ike has more grandchildren_ card, like that means Ryan’s mother loves Ollie and Lo less than she does because they have a couple more cousins on his side. He loves Debbie, he really does, but it’s crazy.)   
  
They’ll have to figure it out soon, though.   
  
\---   
  
But first, the Golden Goggles. Since their Gainesville crew (with the exception of Missy – and of course the younger Gator swimmers to whom Ryan is more mentor/big brother than friend) is retired and doesn’t always bother with this sort of thing, the twins stay with Conor and Elizabeth. Ryan hopes Ollie and Lo won’t be too difficult or they’ll lose their most reliable babysitters. He suggests inviting Charlie over – he’s really not sure why the twins behave so much better around him, but they do.   
  
(OK, it’s probably Nathan and his freakishly good parenting. Maybe they have required classes at Cal – that’s gotta be it. How else would one guy on his own raise a kid better than two?)   
  
\---   
  
The trip annoys the hell out of Ryan. He has to smile; because he always smiles, he can’t move an inch without a smile on his face, even now. Certainly not when fans ask for pictures and autographs in line for the security check, at the terminal, on line to board the plane. They all ask Michael, too, of course, and sometimes they have to pose together with fans who ask for joint pictures and it’s _so uncomfortable_.   
  
Ryan has to smile even though the last thing he wants to do is leave home. He’s avoided leaving Gainesville as much as humanly possible since – since everything. The only reason he leaves at all is when he can’t get out of it. (Thanks, Erika _._ ) For all his interest in Hollywood, Ryan’s not a very good actor, at least when it comes to his personal life. It’s hard to play “happy family” with Michael now, but especially when they don’t have the kids as a buffer.   
  
They’re taking a 7:00 AM flight back to Florida (unfortunately the last of the late night flights was still too early for them to make it after the awards), so they’ll get very little sleep, if any, after all is said and done. Getting a hotel room is more of a formality than anything else. But they still get a suite – for the two bedrooms, of course, and they each toss their carry-ons on their respective beds before dealing with showers and getting dressed and the rest of it.   
  
\---   
  
Ryan gets through the photo ops and the usual stupid questions whenever someone sticks a microphone in his face, manages to smile in all the right places and make small talk (though he sounds a little more ‘Ryan Lochte Is Terrible at Interviews’ than he’d like) and avoid the other Gators, their eyes filled with the questions they won’t ask out loud. The only person here who might ask is Missy and she knows enough that she won’t ask in public. If she hasn’t already, she won’t pick now to do it.   
  
He isn’t even sure why he’s here, to be honest. He should’ve just “declined with regrets.” Yeah, he’s been nominated for awards because of Pan Pacs. But he really, really hopes to God he doesn’t actually win because he’s not sure he could get through an acceptance speech in one piece.   
  
Every time since his very first Golden Goggle (the Perseverance Award in 2007, he’ll never forget it), Ryan’s speech is usually some variation of “my coach is awesome, my family is awesome – especially my mom – and I love you guys.” (The only difference is how coherent he does or doesn’t sound.) Except anytime he’s won anything since London, it’s been Michael and Ollie and Lo that he singles out first, but he’s not sure he has it in him to pretend everything’s OK tonight.   
  
Nothing’s the same anymore.   
  
\---   
  
In 2011, they were friends and rivals, teammates and competitors.   
  
In 2012, they’re lovers and partners, gone from bromance to romance. (In the public eye, at least. That’s been the case behind the scenes for years now.)   
  
In 2011, Ryan won Male Race of the Year and thanked his greatest rival.   
  
( _I wouldn’t get this if it wasn’t for Michael, he’s pushed me, uh, so many limits, from what he’s done through the sport of swimming is just amazing and he pushes me every day and I push him and we have a great, um, sportsmanship and a rivalry._ )   
  
In 2012, Michael wins Male Race of the Year and thanks his _husband_.   
  
In 2011, all anyone could talk about is the era of Phelps and Lochte.   
  
( _This is a very special time in our sport. It’s an era that has never come before in swimming._   
  
_It’s the era of Phelps and Lochte, perhaps the two greatest swimmers ever to dive into a swimming pool._  
  
 _It’s our version of Ali/Fraser, Yankees and Red Sox, two hard-charging champions who bring out the best in each other every time they meet._  
  
 _For this year’s Male Athlete of the Year Award, there simply could not be any other nominees._ )   
  
In 2012, all anyone can talk about is how they can’t believe the era of Michael Phelps, Greatest Olympian of All Time, is coming to an end, how the sport of swimming will never be the same.   
  
It won’t be. But swimming isn’t the only thing that matters.   
  
( _I’ve always loved swimming. But I love it even more because it led me right here to this beach, right to the person I love most. And I’m going to love you the rest of my life, Mike, even when the only place I’m swimming is the bathtub in our retirement home._ _But just cuz I love you doesn’t mean I’ll let up – even when we’re a hundred, my free’s going kick your free’s a – butt._   
  
_You_ wish _, man. Um, I’m going to sound like I stole your idea kind of, but . . . Well, swimming’s been pretty great for me too. I’ve, you know, won a lot of medals. But the most important thing I’ve ever won – you’re not allowed to laugh at me for being cheesy, Ry, seriously OK? – is your love. I only hope I can be worthy of it, that I’m as good at loving you, at making you happy, as at winning races._ )   
  
Ryan’s always known that, but he’s only been wearing the proof since a breezy, sunny late-summer day in Athens. Just the memory makes him smile.   
  
Now everyone – not just them, not just the family and friends that joined them a couple months ago – knows it, too.    
  
Even when Michael’s up on stage receiving his final award of the night, even before he opens his mouth to start his last acceptance speech, the warmth in his eyes is unmistakable.   
  
\---   
  
In 2012, they struggled to keep their hands to themselves.   
  
In 2018, they sit like strangers.   
  
\---   
  
Ryan’s relay wins, but he breathes a sigh of relief as he manages to avoid the microphone. It’s a bonus that he gets to look like a good guy, like the big brother/dad (not that he’s old enough for that, no matter how many reporters want to put that on him: his actual kids are only five, not _twenty-five_ like some of his teammates) letting the younger guys talk instead, get their moment in the sun.    
  
Ryan’s also been nominated for his 100 fly at Pan Pacs, of all things. (Michael’s stroke, Michael’s stroke _first_ , anyway.) He’s never wanted so badly not to win anything in his life. But the universe must hate him because he does and the microphone (the _mike_ , how fucking hilarious) just sits there mocking him once he gets up on stage.   
  
Ryan takes a deep breath before starting, no idea what to say. He didn’t plan anything because he convinced himself he wouldn’t win because he didn’t want to. Typical Lochte logic. _Shit_. _Shit_. “I –” _What would Erika say?_ “I – uh – wow, thank you.” _What next? What would_ Gregg _say? Mention the other guys, Ryan._ Normally he only did that when he beat Michael, but – “I can’t believe I won this, I mean, the other races that got nominated were awesome, I got to see some of them live and I just – whoa, they blew me away. So those guys, you should give ‘em a round of applause.” _Nice save._ The extended clapping buys him some time. (Thanks, Gregg.)   
  
“Well, thank you. Thank you USA Swimming” (Erika again), “thank you everyone here tonight and of course my coach, Gregg Troy and – and my family.” Done. _Stop. Say thank you again and stop talking. Just walk away._ But for some reason he doesn’t. “Especially my kids, they couldn’t be here tonight, but they’re amazing. My daughter Lauren and my son Oliver.” _Shit. Shit. Shit. What now?_ _Swimming. Talk about_ swimming _, Ryan._ “Ollie, uh, he just started swimming this year, actually. He was, um – really scared at first, but now – whooee, his fly is gonna blow mine out of the water someday. So here’s to the next generation of American swimming. Thank you.” He smiles (genuinely – the thought of Ollie’s swimming does the trick), holds up his Golden Goggle and lets the presenters walk him backstage.   
  
Once he gets backstage, Ryan’s smile fades because he probably sounded so _stupid_. Normally he wouldn’t care (much), but this time he just wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole right then. (If it did, he wouldn’t have to deal with anythingelse either. Definitely a bonus.)   
  
No such luck. He finds his way back to his table and counts the minutes to the last award of the night. (It’s Male Athlete of the Year, which he’s also nominated for because it’s been a very good year – for his swimming, anyway. But he doesn’t win, thank God.) Once that’s done, Ryan politely turns down the invites to after-parties because “we’ve got an early flight in the morning. Yeah, 7 A.M. It sucks, but there’s no flight direct to Gainesville, so we gotta make do.”   
  
That was the worst, he thinks, as they get into the car they hired to go back to the hotel. The ride is silent, since Mike already congratulated him like 3 times in front of everyone at the banquet. (It was overkill. He was probably trying to cover for the fact that Ryan didn’t mention him in his speech. After all, if Michael’s excited, that means he’s not mad and everything’s OK, right?)   
  
Never again. He’s not putting himself through that anymore, Ryan decides, twisting his wedding band round and round as he looks out the window at the city lights zooming by.   
  
(Of course it’s not to avoid looking at Michael, who’s sitting at the opposite end of the backseat, leaning against and looking out his own window. _Of course not._ )   
  
Something’s gotta give. “Mike?”   
  
Michael jumps a little and turns to look at him. “Yeah?”   
  
“I’m done.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Goggles memory where Ryan is speaking about Michael is not mine; it’s from his 2011 Male Race of the Year speech. The 2011 Male Athlete of the Year introduction about the Phelps-Lochte rivalry was by Matt Biondi and Bryan Clay.


	12. Clean Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The silence is so loud it hurts.

 

  
 _“I’m done.”_  
  
 _“You’re done with –” There’s a panicked note in Michael’s voice and only then does Ryan realize what that might have sounded like._  
  
 _“Swimming. It’s been over. But now . . . it’s over for real. I wanna retire. I wanna make it official. All I’ve been thinking about since we left is how I should’ve already announced that I was going to retire, so I can stop pretending, stop going through the motions. They could’ve given me some, like, Lifetime Achievement Award or some shit.”_  
  
 _It’s only when Ryan stops talking that he notices you could hear a pin drop in their car._  
  
 _He wonders if Michael’s stopped breathing._  
  
 _The silence is so loud it hurts._  
  
\---  
  
Ryan calls Gregg the minute he sets foot in Gainesville. Of course, most people didn’t take 7 AM flights back, so Gregg is (at best) still in the air. He might even still be in New York.  
  
It takes most of the day for Gregg to call back, but at least he’s back in Gainesville when he does.  
  
Ryan asks to meet with him immediately. It needs to be that same day. He hasn’t got a lot of time – their flight for Baltimore leaves tomorrow night and he _needs_ to get this over with.  
  
Gregg goes straight home from the airport, so he suggests that Ryan come see him or that he come see Ryan. Because this is a discussion he’d rather have alone, without Michael (or even the kids) around, he goes to Gregg.  
  
The fact of the matter is that Michael is _completely_ opposed to his retirement. If it weren’t so sad, it would be funny that Michael’s finally getting everything he ever wanted and now he’s refusing to go along with it.  
  
( _But – but – you_ can’t. _We’re going to train. You said so. You agreed. You_ promised.  
  
 _You wanted to_ _work out. That’s not training. That I can do. I mean, if you still want to._  
  
 _Yes, but –_  
  
 _I said I’m done because I mean it, Mike. It’s over._ )  
  
Not that it matters to Ryan. Michael will get over feeling like he has to act like he wants Ryan to swim just because he fucked up. (Just because he fucked somebody else.) Michael doesn’t actually want that. He’ll remember it. It probably won’t even take very long.  
  
Ryan just has to be convincing enough. He probably won’t need to try very hard, because he really does want things to get better, to get easier. Making a clean break from swimming is probably the best way to do that.  
  
(Anyway, it’s not like his heart is still in it.  
  
How could he keep swimming if he doesn’t – if he _can’t_ – mean it anymore?)  
  
\---  
  
Kathleen gives him a sad-eyed look when she opens the door. “This isn’t good, is it?”  
  
“Gregg won’t think so” is all he tells her as she leads him to the den.  
  
Understatement of the century. Gregg isn’t surprised, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t angry.  
  
Ryan sits on the couch, fidgeting like a kid in the principal’s office. (He got called in there way more than his parents were OK with back in the day.)  He can’t seem to sit still. He twists his wedding ring so forcefully round his finger that the skin will probably start peeling if he doesn’t stop soon.  
  
Gregg paces the length of the room.  
  
“I’m pretty sure you knew this was coming, but I’m withdrawing from Short Course Worlds.”  
  
“No, I just figured you’d compete months out of practice and wow us all,” Gregg retorts, turning to face him. The sarcasm isn’t like Gregg; it doesn’t sit right on him.  
  
Ryan looks away, busies himself taking off his watch and the rosary bead wristband his mother gave him years ago, sets them down in front of him on the coffee table before looking back up.  
  
“But um, the bigger thing is, I want – I’m going to – I’m retiring.”  
  
Silence.  
  
( _The silence is so loud it hurts._ )  
  
“I – I expected this. I even told Michael I expected this.”  
  
What? “Gregg –”  
  
“But it doesn’t make it easier to take. I hoped – as long as you didn’t say it, it wasn’t really true. It wasn’t really happening. I – God, do you really want to go out like this? 16 years as a Gator – 16 years as a world-class swimmer, some of those as the _best_ – and it ends with you withdrawing from your last meet? From _Short Course Worlds_ , probably the best damn meets of your career! You won _seven gold medals_ in Dubai, remember that? I mean – can’t you wait at least? You don’t even – you shouldn’t _be_ retiring. You’ve still got it – look at Pan Pacs! Was that some other Ryan Lochte winning Race of the Year last night? Don’t give up like this. Don’t give _in_ just because Mi –”   
  
“Gregg, don’t. Just don’t, OK? It’s not just – it’s _everything_.”  
  
( _First off, I want to really say thank you to my coach, Gregg Troy. He’s been there – Yeah, give him a round of applause. He’s been like my second dad. He’s been there, he’s helped me out through thick and thin, through_ everything _. Through injuries, through_ everything. _He’s just been there, thank you. I wouldn’t have done this without him._ )  
  
“Everything’s off-track and I’ve got to get it back on and swimming –”  
  
“Swimming what, Ryan? Crazy as you are doing all that stupid crap – the skateboarding and the basketball and the damn breakdancing – you love swimming. It’s part of who you _are_. And I may not tell you this often – because God knows the way you act sometimes, it’s safe to say you don’t need the extra ego boost most of the time – but you’re so damn _good_. You know how many guys younger than you would kill to be as good as you still are?”  
  
“I understand that. I do. And you – you’ve been the best coach I could ask for. Like –” Ryan’s chest feels tight. “A dad. You don’t deserve this. And I’m sorry.” He can’t look at Gregg just then, focuses on his open hands, the tattoos on the insides of his wrists. (He has the twins’ names in black cursive: _Oliver_ on the left and _Lauren_ on the right. Michael’s are identical.) “But it’s my family. My _kids_. Everything’s wrong and I need to make it right. I’m trying but I’m not there. After Rio, I should’ve –” He shakes his head. “This’ll help. This’ll make it right. I don’t – there’s no choice here. I wouldn’t pick _anything_ over them.”  
  
(Normally, Ryan isn’t the most observant person in the world, but when he’s done talking, he can’t help but notice how Gregg is looking at him. The expression on his face is downright weird. It’s like he’s just won some sort of argument except they’re not arguing, not really.  Like he’s proven Gregg right somehow, like he wants to say _I told you so_.)  
  
“Ryan –”  
  
“It’s – it’s not negotiable. We’re not talking about it and you’re not gonna try to talk me out of it. I’m sorry. It’s done. It’s over. I’m done.”  
  
Gregg takes a chair across from him, just looks at him for what feels like forever. “I – I don’t want to sit by and let you do this, I think it’s a bad decision, but I understand. I don’t – I won’t – I _couldn’t_ agree, but I get it. You –” He sighs. “You won’t get my blessing, but I’ll – I’ll accept it if you’re sure.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“I’ll deal with Worlds. Even if you weren’t – it wouldn’t have been viable either way.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“When will you – you know, make everything official?”  
  
“I have to talk to Erika. I want to figure it out before Thanksgiving so I can –”  
  
“Break it to everyone?”  
  
“Yeah. Not that it’s going to go over well.”  
  
“Well I’m sure it’ll go over great with –”  
  
He knows Gregg is about to slam Michael and cuts him off. “Actually, no, it didn’t. I told him first. Trust me I learned my lesson after Istanbul.” (Boy did he ever.)  
  
“Lesson? About what? What do you mean _after Istanbul_? What about Istanbul?”  
  
“You know how everyone freaked out in Rio when I said I’d do Istanbul? I just – it just came out.”  
  
“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it. It was good news but –”  
  
“So _no one_ knew. Not even Mike.”  
  
Gregg’s brows go up a little at that, but he doesn’t say anything.  
  
“He didn’t think it was good news,” Ryan continues. (Not that Michael told him that.)  
  
Gregg’s exasperated again. “Because he –”  
  
“Gregg, don’t. Please.” Even though Gregg hasn’t been especially vocal about it, Ryan knows he’s always resented Michael’s lack of involvement in his training for Istanbul, but that’s – that’s neither here nor there anymore. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “ _Please_. Let’s just – let’s just agree to disagree and go out on a good note, OK?”  
  
It takes a little bit (it feels like an eternity), but Gregg nods. “Give me a minute?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
\---  
  
Gregg returns with two beers, caps already off, and hands him one. “You’re going to indulge me. We’re going to sit and watch some of your races and yell at the TV and be ridiculously maudlin. I’m not taking no for an answer.”  
  
“Maudlin?” What does that even mean?  
  
Ryan’s confusion must show on his face, because Gregg says, “ _Sappy_ , son, sappy. What did they teach you when you weren’t swimming?”  
  
“Plenty. And fine, I guess.” Ryan tries to act put out, but he can’t manage it just then. He can feel a smile creeping onto his face – he’d almost forgotten what that was like. It’s kind of a foreign feeling nowadays.  
  
“No one needs to know,” Gregg adds in a hushed tone.  
  
“Never. I got a reputation, Coach.”  
  
They clink beers when Gregg sits down. “Ryan –”  
  
“We toasting? Me first. To the best coach anybody ever had. And one of the best people I know. Thank you – thank you for being there, thank you for _everything_.”  
  
Gregg’s looking misty. “My turn. To the finest athlete I’ve ever worked with. Who’s grown up to be one of the finest _men_ I know. It’s – it’s been a privilege. Most of all, it’s been a pleasure. I – I want you to know that.  
  
Ryan _feels_ misty.  
  
“And – and to know my door’s always open, you got that?” Gregg finishes, looking him dead in the eye.  
  
They clear their throats at the same time. “Even if you’re responsible for at least half my gray hairs,” Gregg adds. They both start laughing because it’s probably true.  
  
\---  
  
They start drinking their beers and turn their attention to the footage Gregg’s queued up, critiquing, laughing, reminiscing about some of the best moments – and some of the stupid things Ryan did to nearly screw them up.  
  
There are college swims that fit the bill, of course, but the non-potable water incident and the [200 back](http://www.nbcolympics.com/video/swimming/beijing-lochte-wins-200m-back.html) in Beijing are the first to come to mind.  
  
Now Ryan barely even remembers being sick – it’s like he only knows it happened because people tell him it did. The only memories that remain are the happy ones. There’s the split second after he realized he’d won and the split second after _that_ , when he realized he’d just set a new world record. There’s standing on the podium knowing the American flag was being raised in the top spot and the national anthem was being played (not raised, he can laugh about that now) for him, _because_ of him, that for the first time he wasn’t just number one along with his teammates, he was number one all by himself, all on his own at the motherfucking _Olympics_. There’s Mom’s joy (amid tears – _happy tears, honey,_ she insisted) and Dad’s pride when he first saw them both afterwards and when they watched the race tape later, just the three of them.  
  
(OK, it was the three of them and a roomful of reporters watching their reactions. Still, it’s one of his last good memories with just his parents before the divorce.  
  
Ryan may or may not pull up that [video on YouTube](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DEqTBywvGO8) every once in a while.)  
  
As they watch, Ryan and Gregg sometimes shake their fists at old rivals. (Or you know, give them the finger. Same difference.)  
  
Peanuts from the giant bowl on the coffee table sometimes get thrown.  
  
(Ryan pretends not to notice how Gregg throws a whole _handful_ when it’s Michael.  
  
No doubt he’ll get an earful from Kathleen in the morning. She keeps a spotless house – cleaner than Mom, if that’s possible.)  
  
There’s the first time Ryan beat Michael at a major meet: [the 200 IM in 2010 at Nationals in Irvine](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GNUBCpCE-w).  
  
Ryan tried not to be _too_ happy – it was Michael, after all. But he couldn’t help but be pretty fucking proud of himself _because_ it was Michael. Who could blame him?  
  
The first world records Ryan broke (the first world records that were broken _period_ ) after FINA banned super suits: at 2010 and 2011 Worlds – the [200](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y76aNcE-6eE) and [400 IM](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6wnyqEmbGwc) in Dubai and the [200 IM](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=racCSoBQjH4) in Shanghai the following year. (He’d swum right past Michael to the record in Shanghai.)  
  
The first (and only, to Gregg’s _and_ Ryan’s eternal disappointment) time he beat Michael in an Olympic event: [the 400 IM](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3H8qJg00w5Y&feature=relmfu) in London.  
  
Again, Ryan tried not to be _too_ happy. Again, he couldn’t help but be pretty fucking proud of himself.  
  
But not because it was Michael; Michael hadn’t even _medaled_. If anything, that diminished the victory a little. Ryan never likes – _liked_ – to win just to win – he liked to win when and because he deserved it, because he swam against the best and swam just that little bit _better_.  
  
Until the 400 IM, the best _always_ meant Michael. The only time the best didn’t mean Michael was when he wasn’t competing.  
  
Truth be told, not only had Michael not brought his A-game, but Ryan himself also failed to bring his A-game. There was no world record broken that time around.  
  
Still, he beat the entire field by over _3 seconds_.  
  
If he’s perfectly honest, he was _ecstatic_.  
  
That first night in London, Ryan Lochte was on top of the world.  
  
Of course there’s the last relay he swam with Michael: the [4x200 free](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pe3I8NkR5oQ&feature=BFa&list=SPDA8FB755A4AABDA9) in London.  
  
It feels like it happened to a different person, in a different life.  
  
Ryan resists the urge to close his eyes because his only thought when he sees Michael’s smiling face after breaking the medal record, basking in the glow of a final shared victory, secure in the knowledge that they had the rest of their lives – the rest of their lives _together_ – ahead of them, is _if only I’d known_.  
  
Ryan would’ve held onto that moment with both hands, with everything in him, forever.  
  
\---  
  
When Ryan finally leaves a couple hours later, Gregg promises to keep quiet until everything’s official.  
  
But Kathleen still seems to suspect what happened tonight. Her “don’t you be a stranger, Ryan” is a bit more forceful than usual and she squeezes his hand a little tighter as they see him out.  
  
He acts on the impulse to turn the usual handshake/shoulder pat thing into a hug when he says goodbye to Gregg.  
  
This isn’t business as usual.  
  
It’s the end of an era.  
  
\---  
  
Ryan calls Erika on Skype.  
  
She drops her mug, spilling coffee and littering the ground with ceramic shards, which sends Shawn running off-screen for paper towels and a broom.  
  
Once Erika recovers from her shock, she’s _livid_ , to say the least.  
  
“You _cannot_ be serious, Ryan.”  
  
“Except I am.”  
  
“This isn’t funny.”  
  
“This isn’t a joke. I’m retiring.”  
  
“You can’t.”  
  
“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“It’s personal.”  
  
“That’s not enough.”  
  
“It’s my family, so it is.”  
  
She keeps pushing, but Ryan keeps stonewalling her, so eventually (for perhaps the first time in her life), Erika gives up.  
  
Ryan will announce his retirement at a press conference before the holidays in December.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The italicized memory in parentheses where Ryan is speaking about Gregg is not mine; it’s from his 2011 Male Athlete of the Year speech at the Golden Goggle Awards. If you watch the videos, you may want to watch them with the sound off for best/most realistic effect, though the commentary is enlightening. Obviously, these videos do not belong to me.


	13. Thanksgiving Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are uncomfortable from the moment they touch down in Baltimore.

 

  
Michael is looking forward to Thanksgiving about as much as Ryan is – which is to say not at all. He loves his family, but he’s not sure he can handle the holiday right now, loaded down with secrets (his affair and the fact that his mother knows about it) and not-quite secrets (their separation and Ryan’s impending retirement) as he is.   
  
God, Ryan’s _retirement_.   
  
Michael doesn’t like it, doesn’t want it (anymore), not after everything that’s happened, not after what he’s done, not after how he’s _hurt_ Ryan, but the alternative is so much worse.   
  
\---   
  
His first thought when Ryan says _I’m done_ with no preamble whatsoever makes his heart stop. After all, those two words come after quite possibly the most uncomfortable 24 hours of their married life. After the distance between them seems (impossibly) to widen throughout the night, after Ryan accidentally (or intentionally) leaves him out of his acceptance speech, after he’s left scrambling to keep up appearances in the face of the questioning – even pitying – looks directed at him not just by their tablemates, but by everyone assembled at the banquet once Ryan walks off stage. After Ryan gives him the silent treatment in the car, only to spend the entire ride looking out the window, avoiding his eyes and anxiously twisting his ring around before uttering the two most terrifying words Michael’s ever heard.   
  
When – at his prompting – Ryan clarifies that he’s done with _swimming_ , Michael’s first selfish reaction is relief.   
  
Done with _swimming_. Not with their marriage, not with _Michael_.   
  
Thank God.   
  
(If the idea of Ryan cheating cuts him, the idea of Ryan _leaving_ shatters him.)   
  
\---   
  
Things are uncomfortable from the moment they touch down in Baltimore. (An all-too familiar feeling nowadays.) Despite his attempts to put on a good show for the twins, whose excitement makes them oblivious to their father’s discomfort, Ryan’s apprehension is written on his face. He drags his feet even as they’re getting off the plane and might as well be moving backwards by the time they spot Hilary and Whitney.   
  
They sweep Ollie and Lo off their feet into hugs, then turn to Michael, hugging him tight, eyes lingering on his face a beat too long.   
  
His sisters’ assumptions are instantly clear in their cool attitude toward Ryan: they turn to him last, skipping the usual hugs and proffering their cheeks for chilly air kisses instead.   
  
It makes Michael sick with anger – at himself, of course. Hilary and Whitney have no idea what really happened. He wonders if the growing knot of guilt in his stomach will leave any room for dinner tomorrow.   
  
He tries to catch Ryan’s eye in the car, but Ryan is obviously a thousand miles away, staring out the window as he absently pats Lo’s hair, deaf to her protests that he’s messing up her braids.   
  
\---   
  
Thankfully, Michael’s sisters don’t stick around after dropping them off at Mom’s. Mom, however, presents a different problem. She greets Ryan so warmly – even more warmly than _before_ , if such a thing is possible – and is such a sharp contrast to Hilary and Whitney’s deep freeze that Michael worries Ryan will figure out what’s up.   
  
At least Mom’s even more affectionate with Ollie; obviously the fact that he ran away is still front and center in her mind, which means she’ll smother him with even more attention than usual. Michael hopes Lo won’t get jealous.   
  
**\---**  
  
“Mom, can we talk? Michael asks after Lo and Ollie are asleep. Ryan’s only in the bathroom, so he’s got a very short window of time.   
  
“Of course, Michael, I was hoping –”   
  
“Alone.”   
  
“Obviously.”   
  
“I mean outside.”   
  
“It’s _cold_ outside, Michael. I know you’ve been living in Florida for years, but November is very different in –”   
  
“ _Mom_ ,” he says significantly as Ryan walks back into the living room.   
  
She gets the hint. “You know, I forgot to buy milk for breakfast. Will you come with me, Michael? I wouldn’t want to drag Ryan out in the cold – not with your thin Floridian blood, honey,” she finishes with a look to Ryan.   
  
“Sure Mom.”   
  
\---   
  
Late-night car rides are their thing. They always have been. Mom tells him that when he was a baby, he was nearly impossible to put down to sleep and on especially hard nights, she would put him in his car seat and drive around the neighborhood. The combination of the motion and her voice – she’d talk to him about whatever came to mind first – would soothe him to sleep in a way nothing else could.   
  
(That trick was equally effective for Lo, who was something of a difficult baby. Fortunately Ollie was her polar opposite: more easygoing than Michael and Ryan thought an infant was capable of being, so it balanced out.   
  
_Some_ things never change.)   
  
“When Ryan – when he found out –” How else is he supposed to put it? Caught me _in flagrante_? Caught me with my – whatever? He’s talking to his mother. There are some things he can’t even tell _her_. “He – he asked me why. And I just – I said a lot of things. But the main thing was Istanbul because it felt like everything else flowed from that.”   
  
“Michael, that was hardly entirely –”   
  
“Fair, I know. But that’s what I said. And well, his swimming started going really badly after we separated – like he was just erratic about going to practice and his times su – got worse and then apparently after Ollie ran away” (Mom puts her hand over heart at that in remembered distress) “he stopped going altogether and hasn’t been back since.”   
  
“So he’s retiring because he thinks he can’t get back where he was?”   
  
“He’s retiring because he’s literally been traumatized away from the pool,” Michael corrects guiltily. “I mean – he did go back once, after he moved back. I made him. It was – like he just stood outside the pool like Ollie did when we took him to his first swimming lesson – it was _exactly the same_. Still in his warm-ups, toes curled around the edge, looking like the water was going to _bite_ him.”   
  
“Like when you wouldn’t even put your face in the water?”   
  
“Pretty much. But worse because Ryan’s never been like that about the water, not even as a kid.”   
  
“I’ve heard _that_ story many, many times.” (It’s one of Ike’s favorites.) “So you just stood outside the pool and stared at the water and eventually left because he wouldn’t get in?”   
  
“No. I told him to get in and he said he hadn’t worn a Speedo and he just looked so _smug_ like he’d pulled one over on me so . . . so I pushed him. Clothes and all.”   
  
“Michael!”   
  
“End justifies the means, Mom,” he replies. “Except it didn’t actually help because I didn’t even really get him to talk.” Talk much, at any rate. ( _You get tested yet, Mikey?_ Michael’s face still burns at the memory of the perfectly reasonable question asked out of nothing more than perfectly justifiable spite, because the answer was – still is – obviously irrelevant to Ryan. ) “Let alone swim. And he hasn’t been back. He won’t go.”   
  
“You know you can’t make him?” On its face, it’s a statement, but the lilt is all question.   
  
“But I _made_ him stop loving it. I made him _afraid_ of loving it.”   
  
“That doesn’t mean you can make him love it again,” his mother counters.   
  
There’s that too-familiar tightness in his chest. “I know, but –”   
  
“Michael, you need to understand that you may not be able to put the pieces back exactly as they were, that –”   
  
“I do understand, I just –”   
  
“No, I don’t think you do. No matter how hard you try, things will never be the same.”   
  
It sounds so final, so _awful_ when she puts it that way. “Mom –”   
  
“You’re not the same and Ryan is certainly not the same.” There’s a significant pause there, one that lets his mind wander back.   
  
( _I think – I think you just want everything to go back to normal. But it can’t. Whatever this – whatever happens now, it’s gonna be different._ I’m _different. It’s – I mean, I said, after London, I was going to Rio and I’d go another four years after if I was still having fun. Remember that, Mike? Stating the obvious here, but it’s not fun anymore. Swimming isn’t gonna be fun again, ever. I almost lost everything. I can’t even –_ )   
  
She continues, “You can’t expect other things to be the same either. And if your – if all of this was born from Istanbul and swimming – well, you can’t expect Ryan to feel the same about any of that anymore. From what you’re telling me, in your position I might consider myself accomplished if he stops flinching away from the pool anytime soon. I think competing again, after everything, would be a lot to ask of him.”   
  
“But he –”   
  
“The thing is, Michael, you’ve put him in an impossible position. You blamed your marital problems – your _affair_ – on his swimming.” His mother tenses at the word _affair_ , voice dropping as though Hilary and Whitney – or worse, _Ryan_ – might pop up in the backseat.   
  
( _Not another four years of semi-single parenting,_ he said the day Ryan walked in on them .   
  
It was an especially low blow given the man in question: Ryan who told ESPN his greatest fear was being a bad father; Ryan who’s always felt a little bit guilty about his hesitation when it came to having kids in the first place.)   
  
“And it’s obvious that Ryan’s taken that to heart. He’s hardly perfect and he acted downright badly in Rio – you know what I thought of that, not that you followed my advice.” That’s the closest Mom will come to saying _I told you so_. “But his heart is in the right place and when push came to shove, he put your family first. It’s unfortunate that something so dramatic had to happen for _that_ to happen, but it did.”   
  
When she puts it that way . . . “Mom, I didn’t mean –”   
  
“The thing is, though, it wasn’t all that much of a choice. He’s been backed into a corner.”   
  
( _I guess – I can’t have it all. And I’m not gonna pick the pool over my – over Ollie and Lo._ )   
  
“And I’m not sure you can understand that because that wasn’t your case: you chose to retire after London, no matter how the rest of us felt about it. You knew you would do it well in advance and you did it because you wanted to, because it made sense to you and for you, because you’d accomplished or would accomplish everything you set out to do by the end of those Games. But Ryan – it’s night and day. If you try to force him on this now – to force the pool back on him – after everything that’s happened, you’re basically making his choices for him. And that’s the _last_ thing you should do. You’ve already said your piece; just –” his mother sighs. “I think you need to let him be because at this point, neither choice is going to make him truly happy. The only thing you can do now is let him choose from the options he has and support that decision. Anyway, the choice he’s planning to make – the choice he’s _made_ , Michael, whether you like it or not – is what you wanted.”   
  
There’s that familiar lump in his throat. “You said _neither choice is going to make him truly happy_. Then what _will_ make him happy?”   
  
“I couldn’t even begin to guess, Michael.”   
  
“I can’t be happy if he’s not. Not after –”   
  
“Even now that you’re getting what you wanted?” she asks quietly. It’s not judgmental, not really, but to his guilty mind it sounds that way.   
  
“Not like this, Mom. I’m not willing to pay – I’m not willing to have _him_ pay this kind of price. He’s just – just not _Ryan_ anymore. It’s – swimming is different for him. It always has been. I just – I didn’t understand before. I didn’t get it. I let everything just – just get out of control.”   
  
“Oh, honey.” Michael’s eyes cut right for a split second and he sees his mother bite her lip before he glances back at the road. If she were anyone else, he’s pretty sure the next words out of her mouth would’ve been _Why couldn’t you have figured that out_ before _?_ Or _you should’ve thought about that_ before _._   
  
_Before_ sleeping with somebody else.   
  
\---   
  
One morning that first week of camp, Michael sees one of the mothers give him the eye. Not the _fuck me_ eyes the desperate housewives would make at Ryan, not the _be the Prince Charming to my Cinderella_ eyes the babysitters _and_ their employers would flutter at Nathan (paired with too-innocent smiles) not even the quick, friendly smile and “Hey! Good to see you, how’s it going?” Conor would get if any of them were here.   
  
There’s surprise, curiosity, a little interest – _that’s Michael Phelps, isn’t it? What’s_ he _doing_ _here? Wonder if I can get an autograph. How much would it be worth?_   
  
She raises her eyebrows. “4 kids? Impressive. You handle them well.”   
  
“Not all mine, thank God.”   
  
“I figured – unless you were building a family Jolie-Pitt style.”   
  
“Yeah, no. The two are enough. The best, but definitely a handful.”   
  
“Which ones? Well, I see one of them _must_ be your son – he looks just like you.”   
  
“Lo – Lauren.”   
  
“Ah, the only girl. What a position. Rules the boys like a little queen, I expect?”   
  
“And the family too,” Michael finishes with a fond laugh.   
  
She laughs, too. “You obviously love them very much.”   
  
“I do. What about you?”   
  
“That’s my daughter over there, little thing with the sandy hair and freckles – my miniature, pretty much. She’s a treasure.” Her eyes follow the kids as the counselors lead them in.   
  
“And a very pretty girl.” She smiles when he adds, “Like mother, like daughter.   
  
“Thank you. But I have to say I don’t accept compliments from strangers,” she tells him.   
  
“My – I know someone who goes by the motto that there’s no such thing as strangers, only friends you haven’t met yet.” _Ryan_.   
  
“Well, that works for me, I could use friends. I’m Mary.” She extends her hand with a smile.   
  
He shakes it; she has a firm grip. “Michael.”   
  
“Phelps, I know. I could pretend I don’t, but I would’ve had to be living under a rock for pretty much forever. And even so, I live in an Olympic host city –”   
  
(She’s refreshingly candid, wide blue eyes honest and open. Like water.)   
  
“Which one?”   
  
“London.” He should’ve guessed by her accent.   
  
“London’s great, I really enjoy it actually. So what brings you to Gainesville, then? And your daughter, if you live in London?”   
  
“Well, I mean, I live here right now, but it’s not a permanent arrangement. I’ve got a fellowship at the University of Florida.”   
  
“UF, I shouldn’t be surprised. Pretty much everyone here has _some_ connection. How do you like it?”   
  
“So far, so good. But I haven’t been here very long, which is why I’m in the market for friends and all that.”   
  
“Well, you can count me in, if you want.”   
  
She smiles a little wider. It’s a nice smile – especially considering how much people go on and on about Brits’ awful teeth. “I’m surprised _you_ have openings in that department.”   
  
“You know what they say about assumptions. Anyway, retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“Not very stimulating.”   
  
“Hmm, well I would think the celebrity life would be a little _over_ stimulating, that it might be nice to take a break.”   
  
“I mean, yeah, definitely – I mean, it’s nice not to live out of suitcases, or, you know, live and die by split times and black lines. So I get a break, but I also don’t –”   
  
“Because your husband still swims,” she finishes. “There are still all those strings.”   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“I understand – being married to a high-flier isn’t easy. But I guess it’s different for you, because that used to be you, too.”    
  
Michael winces at _that used to be you, too_ ; it makes him sound over, done, _washed up_.   
  
( _Must be nice being Ryan Lochte. I mean, he gets to swan around, play pretty princess, be the golden boy and win all the medals while Phelps keeps the home fires burning. You know, takes cares of the kiddies and plays mommy at the PTA?_   
  
_You can’t tell me Lochte doesn’t love it, having the guy who kicked his ass for years basically be his bitch now. Who wouldn’t? It’s fucking_ priceless _. It’s almost too bad I’m not a homo; there’s a couple douchebags in the office I’d pay to see in Phelps’ boat. They’d probably look better in an apron, too._ )   
  
Mary continues, not noticing his reaction. Her husband isn’t entirely in the picture: “Jack’s a big financier at Barclays and, while he’s fine financing my doctorate, he’s not thrilled because he feels children should have a parent at home full-time if it’s feasible financially and it _is_. But he accepted it, finally. I could’ve had my degree years ago. But even now, he wasn’t keen on making the move out here for the year. I can’t say I blame him for that; Gainesville is nice, but it isn’t exactly a big financial center. Still, it’s difficult, especially with Ella. She adores her father.” Mary sighs. “Look at me, prattling on. You must be thinking _so much for that stiff upper lip_.”   
  
He shakes his head thoughtfully. “No, it’s good to say what you think. I respect that. I have a hard time doing it myself, to be honest.”   
  
“Well, I like to think I’m as good a listener as I am a talker. You can try it out with me.”   
  
“I may take you up on that.”   
  
“Any chance you’d like to now? I’m trying to find a place where I can get a decent tea – I know I can’t expect a proper tea spread in the States but just a cuppa would be lovely.”   
  
“I can think of one, yeah – my mother took Lo there last time she was in town. We can take my car, drive back before the kids get out of camp?”   
  
“I’d like that.”   
  
And off they go.   
  
\---   
  
Mary has _nothing_ to do with swimming, isn’t enmeshed in that network – unlike literally every acquaintance, friend and family member Michael has. She knows _nothing_ about any of them and next to nothing about the sport.    
  
(Next to nothing about _Ryan_.)   
  
Talking to her is easy.   
  
Laughing with her is easy.   
  
Kissing her is easy.   
  
(She hesitates only a split second.)   
  
It’s so _easy_.   
  
\---   
  
When Michael and his mother finally get back from their drive (they had to actually stop by the supermarket to get the milk first so their alibi would hold up), Ryan is waiting for them in the living room. He closes his magazine. (It looks like he’s just gotten started on _Men’s Health_ ; it was _TIME_ when they left, which he’d been reading on the plane.) “I was – um, I didn’t know which of the rooms to take,” Ryan tells Mom, pushing up his glasses reflexively.   
  
Mom starts to respond when Michael shakes his head minutely. As much as it would make things easier, Ryan might guess what’s up if she offers to make up separate rooms. Presumably, she would think everything’s OK (mostly OK) now that Ryan’s been back for a while and a shared room would be par for the course.   
  
“The usual one, of course, dear.”   
  
“Oh, OK, I just wasn’t sure.”   
  
“Well – goodnight, Mom.”   
  
“Goodnight, Debbie.”   
  
“Goodnight, boys.”   
  
They’ll _always_ be boys to her; Michael doesn’t even bother to correct her anymore.   
  
\---   
  
Michael begins to regret his silent exchange with his mother as they walk upstairs. Ryan’s practically vibrating with tension by the time they get to their room.   
  
Michael stands in one corner of the room, trying to think of something to say to as Ryan places his carry-on in the opposite corner, then approaches the bed and grabs two of the four pillows. Michael has no idea what he’s – _oh_.   
  
“If that’s what you’re going to do, I’d rather ask my mother to make up another room. You’re not sleeping on the floor.” It may be unfair to play that card (Gregg would call him _manipulative_ , maybe even _fucking manipulative_ ) but he’s not about to let Ryan exile himself to the floor, no matter how fluffy the carpeting.   
  
“You’re not going to say anything to her.” He’s not entirely sure if Ryan is calling his bluff or trying to order him around right back.   
  
“Fine, then _I’ll_ sleep on the floor.”   
  
“Don’t be stupid.”   
  
“What, you get the monopoly on that?”   
  
“Some people think so.” (With how easy and confident Ryan always seems, Michael sometimes forgets that he takes cracks about his intelligence – or alleged lack thereof – harder than he lets on.)   
  
“You know that’s not what I meant. _You_ called _me_ stupid.”   
  
“Well, I’m not going to –”  
  
“Let’s just be adults about this. It’s a big bed. You take one side and I’ll take the other. I can even get pillows from next door if you want a barrier.” If that’s what it takes, fine, he’ll do it.   
  
(That doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.)   
  
“Fine. Don’t bother with the pillows.”   
  
It’s a huge bed, but they sleep so far on opposite sides of it that they’re likely to fall off.  
  
\---  
  
The next morning, Michael wakes up first, confused for a split second before he remembers that he’s in Baltimore for Thanksgiving – and that he’s not alone.  
  
But Ryan is in a different position – somehow even further away – than when he fell asleep last night, arms curled around a pillow like Ollie’s around his stuffed gator, one leg tangled in his blankets and the other foot dangling off his side of the bed.  
  
It’s so different from before that Michael might as well be alone.   
  



	14. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They wind their way around the table and eventually get to Mom, who simply says, “Because we’re all here together.”

  
Michael made sure to let his mother and sisters know about Ryan’s plans to retire (and the press conference scheduled to announce it next month) before they arrived in Baltimore. They wanted to avoid discussing it over the weekend so as not chance any of the kids (theirs or his sisters’) overhearing and accidentally spilling the beans ahead of time.

Unfortunately, it becomes obvious on Thanksgiving Day that Michael’s sisters don’t plan on being entirely cooperative. While passing a pitcher of water to Bob, Whitney asks Michael (in a tone that is just a shade too innocent), “Now that Ryan’s r –,” she pauses, knowing she’s not supposed to mention the r-word. “You know, will you maybe move?” While the question is directed at Michael, her eyes are fixed on Ryan.

“Move?” Michael repeats. “Move where?”

“Back home, of course,” Hilary chimes in.

Michael widens his eyes, jerking his head in the direction of the kids.

They’ve chosen their moment well because the kids are too absorbed chatting amongst themselves and Mom’s gone back to the kitchen for some forgotten side dish or other.

For some reason, Mom decided that the kids are going to sit at one end of the table together, rather than near their respective parents. Now that he thinks about it, it might have been a smart strategic decision: it distances the kids from the very real tension amongst the adults. Plus Mom had shuffled the rest of them around a bit as well.

Whenever Michael comes home, Mom always places him at the head of the table (at Thanksgiving, it’s his responsibility to carve the turkey), Ryan at his right and herself at his left. This year, Ryan’s in his usual seat, but Mom is next to him instead of across from him. She obviously means to serve as a buffer between Ryan and Hilary and Whitney. But putting them directly across from each other may not have been the best idea.

“I mean, you won’t need to worry about being near Coach Troy and UF anymore. It would be so nice to have you home again,” Hilary continues.

Once, Michael would’ve agreed with Hilary.

\---

Before they settle down for good, Michael really wants to stay in Baltimore.

Before Trials for London are even _close_ to underway (are barely even a blip on the radar), Michael tries to convince Ryan to train for Rio at NBAC rather than UF, arguing that Baltimore is a better place to live and raise children (a point Ryan vehemently disagrees with), plus his mother and sisters will be available to help when they have kids.

But even-tempered, agreeable Ryan puts his foot down (for once) on living – or rather not living – in Baltimore; he isn’t about to ditch his longtime coach and the Gators to train with Bob (whose coaching style, to be fair, is entirely incompatible with his personality) at NBAC, even if Michael’s already promised to put in the time to help him train, too. Ryan works well with Gregg and Gainesville is a perfectly good place to live. And anyway, what about _his_ family? They might not be in Gainesville itself, but Baltimore is a hell of a lot farther from them.

Ultimately, marriage is about compromises. Ryan already agreed to children as soon as possible after London. Michael agreed to Rio; therefore, he agrees to Gainesville, so they break ground on their new home there shortly thereafter.

\---

It feels like a hundred years ago that they debated where to live; Michael’s so used to their friends and their house, which is the only home they’ve lived in since getting married. It’s the house they brought Ollie and Lo home to and the only home _they’ve_ known: where they said their first words and took their first steps, where they first slept in “big boy” and “big girl” beds, where they got ready for their first day of school.

(Still, the thought of moving is tempting because of the _other_ things that happened in their house recently.)

While the question was nominally directed at Michael, Ryan, though equally taken aback, is the one who takes the initiative, leaning forward slightly to answer the initial question. (Knowing Ryan’s mindset lately, the reply would likely be some sort of surrender, some attempted _hari-kari_ on the altar of keeping the peace and keeping everyone happy.)

Michael jumps in before Ryan has a chance to open his mouth, “No plans of the sort.”

Hilary and Whitney don’t make any sort of verbal response at first, but they both roll their eyes, like _our little brother is being a doormat again, giving up what he wants for Ryan for the millionth time._ (His sisters’ imagined thoughts sound familiar enough – enough like his own thoughts _before_ – that Michael feels a little bit ashamed of himself.)

“Why not?” Hilary asks.

Why _not_? It’s a good question. The fact of the matter is that while Michael every so often works himself up about living so far from home (especially after Rio, after which he’d hoped to reopen that particular discussion, after which he would’ve done well to be nearer his mother and sisters – maybe he might have acted differently), Gainesville, not Baltimore, is home now. He tells his sisters as much. “Baltimore was _my_ home. Gainesville is _our_ home. Where _we_ decided to live and where we’ll continue to live unless we decide differently.”

End of discussion. (Michael hopes so, anyway.)

But his sisters don’t agree.

Whitney makes a skeptical noise and says, “Sure, Mike, you were just _thrilled_ to move down to Florida. But I’m sure you love it now.” She pauses then sighs a little, “Love. It’s funny what people will do for it.” The words are completely at odds with the look in her eyes.

Hilary looks at Whitney, but it’s obvious who her words are really directed towards. “Well, marriage is about compromising.”

“You’re absolutely right.” Hilary looks surprised at how easily Michael gives in. “Compromises between the partners in question, not between them and their _sisters_ ,” he finishes pointedly.

“Whoever they’re between, you’re good at compromises. Some people just are.” (Michael really _isn’t_ – except for some of the most important ones, funnily enough.) Hilary gives a too-casual little shrug. _And some people are_ not. The unspoken words ring far more loudly than those said aloud.

Though Whitney “mm-hmms” her agreement, Michael can’t help but notice that his brothers-in-law look torn between agreeing with Hilary and crawling under the table in embarrassment over their wives’ attitudes and behavior at a family dinner – _Thanksgiving_ dinner, of all places.

Meanwhile, whatever conciliatory impulse seized Ryan earlier seems to have disappeared entirely over the past few minutes: both the hand on his thigh and the one gripping the table edge are clenched so tight they’ve gone white. That vibrating tension is back; last night it was from uneasiness, but Michael would bet their house that right this second, it’s from anger. Tonight is probably the first time in weeks Ryan has _let_ himself feel angry. In and of itself, that’s a good thing, but unfortunately this is neither the time nor the place for that particular emotion. So Michael needs to put a stop to his sisters’ stoning-of-the-sinner before the put-upon “sinner” decides he’s had enough and there’s a blow-up over the turkey.

“Hil –”

Mom (who hasn’t even heard the entirety of the conversation) seems to catch the change as quickly as Michael does and moves to quell her daughters. “ _Girls_ ,” she cuts in disapprovingly. Hilary and Whitney _hate_ being called girls – at least in the tone their mother is using right now. “Thanksgiving dinner is not the time to talk about major life decisions and _compromises_ ; your mouths are better put to use eating the food I spent all day cooking.”

They’re obviously stunned to have been reprimanded; if anything, they probably expected Mom would be leading the firing squad. They look mutinous, but they’re not about to challenge her the way they did him.

Crisis averted, thank God. (What would Michael do without his mother?)

Mom continues, “Before our food gets any colder, we’re going to go around the table and say what we’re thankful for. Michael, you start.”

 _Damn it._ What could he possibly be thankful for? Everything was so different last year, so much _better_. But things could definitely be worse right now. At least he still has the chance to – “Second chances. I’m thankful for second chances.”

Everyone save Mom is perplexed.

They go around the table one-by-one. Hilary follows Michael, though really they ought to have gone clockwise (which would’ve meant Ryan next). But Hilary probably jumped in just to stick it to him. If anything, though, she did Ryan a favor, because he’s obviously deep in thought as everyone makes their statements of gratitude.

“For my iguana.” _Ollie._

“For my good grades.” _Connor._

And so on. They wind their way around the table and eventually get to Mom, who simply says, “Because we’re all here together.”

Finally, it’s Ryan’s turn. “I’m thankful for –”

“Me, Daddy! You’re thankful for _me_ ,” Lo pipes up.

“And me!” Ollie adds. “Me mo –”

The smile that started creeping onto Ryan’s face after Lo’s interruption (her innocent remark did a far better job at relaxing him than Mom shutting Hilary and Whitney up) only grows at Ollie’s words. “Definitely thankful for the best kids ever.”

“What about the rest of us, Uncle Ryan? What am I, _chopped liver_?” Taylor cuts in, affronted as only a twelve year old ( _twelve_ – time really does fly; Michael feels so old just _thinking_ that) feeling forgotten by one of her favorite relatives can be.

(Michael can’t help but – fondly – remember how jealous Taylor was of the twins, Lo especially, when they were small. She was losing her two favorite uncles – she’d taken to Ryan immediately – to two babies who weren’t all that exciting, in her opinion. She wasn’t Uncle Mike’s only special girl anymore. Needless to say, she didn’t take it well.

Now, Taylor dotes on Lo: she has seemingly infinite patience in the face of her younger cousin’s chattiness and stubbornness and endless energy, will play at all sorts of girly things Lo doesn’t get to indulge in very often, considering her closest playmates are really Ollie and Charlie and Evan, not the other little girls in her playgroup.

Ollie’s put in the same _pesky little brother_ category as Connor, but Taylor loves him dearly, too.)

Ryan looks at Taylor then, more of the tension draining from his face as he laughs and adds, “And of course the best nieces and nephews ever.” Taylor beams, satisfied

It’s pretty much the only time Michael’s seen Ryan look anything other than uncomfortable since they arrived.  

But somehow that lighthearted moment is sadder than the tension throughout the day because it highlights just how miserable Ryan’s been since they got here. And that fact that he’s so obviously awkward and out of place with Michael’s family (a family that once treated him just like their own) breaks him a little, makes a not-insignificant part of him want to blurt out the truth just to make things fair again.

(Michael also can’t help but remember the previous Thanksgiving and it _hurts_.

Family _, Ryan said warmly, eyes sweeping affectionately around the table and lingering on Lo and Ollie before settling on Michael and holding his own._

The omission isn’t obvious like it was at the Golden Goggles, so no one can jump down Ryan’s throat over it. Not that Mom would let them even if it were – especially knowing as she does who’s really in the wrong.

But it’s there.

And Mom notices too, if the sad expression that flitters across her face before she schools it into something more holiday-appropriate is anything to go by.)

Michael can’t decide if he feels worse than the last time they were all together.

\---

The previous two years, Ryan had meets that conflicted with Michael’s birthday (Trials for Rio and Nationals the following year).

Trials hadn’t bothered Michael much because it would be the last time. (Or so he thought.)

What bothered him more was that Oliver and Lauren’s 3rd birthday fell on the second day of swimming at Rio, but they were all too happy at Ryan’s successes for Michael to let it get to him.

Nationals the next year made Michael see red; he hadn’t expected to be in that position _ever_ again. It doesn’t help that he’s on the sidelines, in the stands for what feels like the _millionth_ time. It doesn’t help that even all these years after London, commentators apparently have nothing better to talk about than “how jarring it _still_ is to see Michael Phelps not just in the stands instead of leading the pack in the pool but cheering on his greatest rival with their _children_.”

Never mind that even at the height of their rivalry, their friendship (and their very-much-under-wraps relationship) came first. Rationally, Michael knows that the contrast between “rivalry and romance” is a better and more interesting angle, but that doesn’t really lessen his irritation when all these people (who know nothing about them) can do is compare them at the other’s expense. Of course, now they focus on how much Ryan’s star has risen since London. (It’s not that that bothers Michael – what kind of person, partner, _husband_ would he be if it did? In itself, it’s a good thing.) What aggravates him is how that ascent is contrasted with how far everyone seems to think Michael’s fallen – as if they’ve all forgotten that he _chose_ to retire and focus on his personal life. 

(As if he somehow stopped being the Greatest Olympian of All Time just because he retired and his husband continues to kick ass.

And, for that matter, as if he hadn’t had the slightest part in Ryan _going HAM_ – direct quote – in Rio.)

At least Oliver and Lauren’s _4 th_ birthday fell the day after World Championships; they might still have been away from home, but Ryan insisted that Erika limit his press availability to the morning (much to her annoyance) and the rest of the day was devoted to the birthday boy and girl. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

The next year, there’s no meet to attend, no plane ride to or back home from a meet. They’ll be home for the day. It’ll be a nice change, to say the least.

Somehow Ryan forgets his birthday. Fucking _forgets_. Doesn’t wish him a happy birthday and therefore doesn’t remind the kids to, just goes on his merry way to practice like it’s just another day.

After dropping the kids off at camp (Elizabeth asks him to swap driving turns – he’ll pick Ollie and Lo up at the Dwyers’ later that day), he spends most of the day with Mary, fielding the occasional call or text or Tweet (from seemingly everyone he knows except his _family_ ) and feeling more annoyed by the hour until it’s time to pick up the twins.

When he gets there, he notices Ollie and Lo aren’t outside playing with Evan and Charlie like they usually are when the weather’s nice, so he parks and rings the doorbell.

As the door opens, Michael’s greeted by shouts of “SURPRISE!”

 _God. Oh_ God.

It’s Elizabeth who opens the door, but Ryan and Ollie and Lo are waiting right behind her, wearing matching smiles.  The twins nearly knock him down with the force of their hugs.

(Michael feels so stupid afterwards, when he has a chance to think about it – just between Facebook and Twitter, how the hell could Ryan have actually forgotten – or forgotten very long, at worst? 

A surprise birthday party is right up Ryan’s alley. He _lives_ to shock people.

Michael’s shocked all right.)

Past _them_ , he sees some of their friends and – wow.  His mother, his sisters, even their kids are here. It’s not exactly a short trip for Schmitty either. And _Bob_. (That must’ve been hard.) Clearly this wasn’t thrown together in a couple hours. _Christ_.

“Do you like it, Dad?”

“We planned the _whole thing_ ,” Lo tells him, gesturing to herself and Ollie, who nods in agreement.

Ryan laughs, squeezing their shoulders, but doesn’t contradict them. “Surprised?”

“Very,” Michael manages to choke out.

“Thought we’d do it big. First birthday home in a few years and everything,” Ryan explains, leading him into the room, as Ollie and Lo follow close behind, each trying to get his attention even as he’s too stunned to do much but let himself be guided from well-wisher to well-wisher.

Mom and Hilary and Whitney are first, of course, and they tell him amidst (multiple) hugs how glad they are to be here (even as Mom makes a little face over the heat – “But you know me, I’ll brave anything – even humidity! – to see my boy,” she insists brightly) and how wonderful it is that Ryan thought to plan this in the first place. Schmitty is equally enthused and Bob, while more restrained, is pleased, too.

It’s a great party.

(Or it would be if Michael could look at his unsuspecting husband and grin back at him without feeling guilty.)

Later, when Elizabeth and Missy turn down the lights so Mom and Ryan can bring out the brightly-lit cake (34 candles – 33 years and 1 for good luck; he’s not sure how they managed to get them all to stay) while everyone sings _Happy Birthday_ , Michael tries to keep a smile on his face as he considers his birthday wish. _A second chance._ With Ollie and Lo’s help (as always), he blows all the candles out in one go.

He cuts the first slice for himself (he has to follow tradition) and lets his mother take over from there.

Michael has no idea how he’ll actually eat it, considering the knot in his stomach, but Mom will never forgive him if he doesn’t. She’ll probably expect him to have seconds.

As usual, he can’t have anything frosted without getting it all over himself.

He tries not to cringe when Ryan leans in.

\---

This time around, Michael’s even more conflicted because Ryan’s rising discomfort is as obvious to Hilary and Whitney as it is to him and seems to confirm whatever suspicions they’ve formed.

He wonders then how his sisters (and their husbands) would feel if they knew how misguided their barely suppressed hostility toward Ryan is, whether they would be angry with themselves for jumping to conclusions or angry with the wayward little brother whose defense they’re leaping to when he doesn’t need or deserve defending.

After a pause that’s just a touch too long, Mom claps her hands and says, “Well, dig in!”

It’s hard to swallow around the lump in his throat, but Michael makes his best effort.

After all, it’s Thanksgiving and Mom _did_ spend all day cooking.


	15. In Sickness and In Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night they come home from Baltimore, Lo is a little quieter than usual.

 

The night they come home from Baltimore, Lo is a little quieter than usual, listless even, but Michael chalks it up to exhaustion from a long travel day (they hit traffic on the way to the airport in Baltimore and on the way home from the airport in Gainesville, not to mention that their flight is delayed) and disappointment at having to say goodbye to Nana Debbie and her favorite cousin and everyone else.  
  
She picks at her dinner – strange for her, she always has a healthy appetite. She’s clingy and fretful at bedtime, but Michael assumes Lo will be back to herself after a good night’s sleep.   
  
**\---**  
  
As Michael walks into the living room after putting the kids to bed, Ryan asks, “What did you say to your sisters?” He sounds less than happy, isn’t even looking up from his iPad. Considering Ryan can’t possibly see him behind the couch, he’s not entirely sure how Ryan even noticed he was in the room in the first place.   
  
“About what?” He asks casually.   
  
“Your sisters told me they were _sorry_ ,” Ryan continues with sarcastic emphasis.  “For, y’know, butting into our business on Thanksgiving. It was awkward as hell.”   
  
“I told them that, though they might mean well,” (and usually they really do, but no doubt wanting to bust Ryan’s chops played a significant part Thursday afternoon) “our decisions about our family are our business. And that it was _especially_ out of line to start questioning them in the middle of dinner, in front of the kids.”   
  
\---   
  
They’re having a late dinner – just the three of them – at their favorite hole-in-the-wall after Hilary and Whitney get back from Black Friday shopping.   
  
(This is a holiday exception – Fridays normally mean pizza and wings at home. But that tradition’s fallen by the wayside after they adopted their super-duper super-healthy lifestyle.)   
  
Initially, Michael brackets the topic of things between Ryan and him. After all, they have an agreement. ( _What happens – happened, Ryan had corrected in a tone tinged with bitterness – in this house doesn’t leave this house_.)   
  
He’s already broken it once by confiding in his mother. He probably would’ve gone insane otherwise. As it is, he’s not that far from it.   
  
( _Not the first time you’ve broken agreements with him. Like your_ vows, the mean little voice in the back of his mind taunts.)   
  
Michael doesn’t want his sisters to pry – or to hear their completely off-base aspersions on Ryan, born from their lifelong instinct to protect _him_.   
  
(And there’s the not-so-tiny part of him that doesn’t want to know what _they’d_ think of him if they knew the truth.   
  
Suffice to say neither Hilary nor Whitney is Mom.)    
  
They let well enough alone through their appetizers and entrees, but Hilary cracks right after their dinner plates are cleared. “Last night was awkward.”   
  
Michael laughs despite himself and Whitney makes a face.   
  
It’s a natural opening and he’d be an idiot not to take it.   
  
His sisters are less than pleased to be chided by him after being reprimanded by Mom.   
  
Hilary concedes that they took things too far by going on the way they did in the middle of a family dinner. Apparently this is the third scolding she’s had in the past 24 hours: from their mother at the table, from her husband once they got home and from Michael now.   
  
Whitney takes it a bit further, admitting “you may be our little brother, but you’re not so little anymore and we didn’t treat you like it. We were . . . _overly intrusive_.” That sounds so much like Bob that he knows Hilary isn’t the only one who got an earful after leaving Mom’s last night.   
  
Michael’s not the one that deserves their apologies, not really. But Hilary and Whitney are less conciliatory when he asks that they apologize to Ryan.   
  
“Can you at least, um, you know, say the part about being overly intrusive and, um, doing it in the middle of a family dinner?” He asks. It’s _something_. He thinks last night may have damaged the relationship between his husband and his sisters permanently, but he hopes not. An apology –even a half-assed one – can only help, right?   
  
“If you want,” Whitney eventually agrees.   
  
“I – Sure, Mike,” Hilary sighs. She may be less than proud of her behavior last night, but it’s obvious she doesn’t feel she did entirely wrong. In her mind, it’s probably the time and place (not the actions) that were problematic. “But . . . I get why it wasn’t appropriate because we were all together for a _holiday_ , but really when else were we supposed to try and _say_ anything? I’m sorry, but it’s hard to play happy families with somebody who screwed my brother and my niece and nephew over when you look so mis –”   
  
“Did anybody ever actually tell you he did something wrong?” Michael cuts in, feeling irrationally annoyed with his sister. (After all, it’s not her fault she has no clue what the hell she’s talking about.)   
  
“No, but God knows you’ve never liked talking to us about your relationship problems,” Hilary retorts.   
  
“So why –”   
  
Whitney jumps in at that point, in her _patient-and-logical_ voice (the one she learned from Mom), “9 times out of 10, whoever moves out when there’s a separation is the one who messed up. And –”   
  
“This is one of those 10th times out of 10,” he cuts in before he can chicken out.   
  
“Mike, I don’t know who told you this self-blame thing is cute, but it’s not.”   
  
His frustration is starting to get the best of him, because he can barely get the words out. “It’s – it wasn’t –”   
  
“I know you l –”   
  
“Jesus Christ, Hilary, can you let me fucking _talk_ for a minute?”   
  
She gapes at him and falls silent for perhaps the first time in her life.   
  
“ _I_ fucked up, OK? Me. Ryan left because _he_ couldn’t stand being around _me_.”   
  
( _I don’t – I don’t wanna know. I can’t, right now.  
  
Ryan –  
  
No – I need, I need some time out. I can’t – I can’t fucking look at you without . . . Yeah, I’m just gonna . . . throw some shit in a suitcase, get outta here, get – _  
  
Away from you, _his brain filled in_. )   
  
After that, Whitney seems like she might actually believe him. “So you’re telling me – us – that you won’t tell us what you did or said or I – I don’t know, _didn’t_ do –” She looks a little too hopeful when she adds that last part. “But your separation was your – _primarily_ your fault?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“And that whatever it was, it was bad enough _your husband moved out_ –”   
  
He nods. After that, he can almost _see_ the wheels turning and gears clicking in his sisters’ heads as the pieces fall into place. But because he hasn’t (and won’t) give them any details, they keep their thoughts on the nature of his wrongdoing to themselves.   
  
Whitney shakes her head sadly. “I thought –” After a long, uncomfortable pause, it’s obvious she isn’t going to finish her statement.   
  
Hilary’s words on the subject are chillier. “I can’t believe you let us make fools of ourselves like we did, let us act like these little sanctimonious avenging angels when we were completely wrong, Michael.”   
  
“We agreed to keep it between us,” he protests weakly. “Please don’t – don’t say anything to Ryan. He can’t know that you know – that you know _anything_ , really. He’d – he’d be furious.”   
  
His sisters make no promises.   
  
“What, seeing you act the martyr a turn-on for him?” Hilary snarks. There’s no trace left of her sisterly outrage anymore.   
  
He wants to laugh at that because the last thing Ryan wants is to touch him. (If he had somehow managed to forgot, their sleeping arrangements would be all the reminder he needs.)   
  
Instead, he ignores the jibe.   
  
Hilary isn’t deterred. “You – I can’t even –” She goes quiet then, deflated. “Whatever it was – and to be honest, I don’t want to know, I wouldn’t even if you wanted to tell me – I’ll consider myself lucky if I can look Ryan in the eye anytime soon.”   
  
Whitney closes her eyes at that before asking if Mom knows.   
  
(Michael wonders if his mother assumes he came clean to Ryan of his own volition or just prefers not to know how he came to know in the first place.)   
  
Their customary triple-fudge chocolate chip cookie sundae arrives just then. (It consists of fudge-drenched vanilla ice cream scooped over a dinner plate-sized, just-out-of-the-oven chocolate chip cookie.)   
  
Instead of answering, Michael takes the first bite like he’s always done.   
  
**\---**  
  
“Whatever. I knew what I was getting into this weekend.” Ryan’s cool reaction stings, though it wasn’t like Michael was expecting . . . _anything_ , really.   
  
(What _could_ he expect? That Ryan _thank_ him for something that was his responsibility? Something he maybe should’ve done _during_ dinner? His mother shouldn’t have needed to run intervention.   
  
After their father left, the family seemed to revolve around Michael, with his mother and sisters caring for and protecting and sometimes downright smothering him. Unfortunately, despite – or perhaps _because of_ – that, he’s never been good at being forceful with the three most important women in his life – after Lo, of course. Nominally, Michael might’ve been the man of the house, but he always knew who the bosses really were.   
  
And he’s _always_ had a hard time with confrontation.)   
  
Ryan turns his attention back to his iPad, so Michael turns around and goes back up the stairs to bed, forgoing his usual glass of water to avoid temptations in the kitchen.   
  
\---   
  
A couple hours later, Michael awakens to little hands tapping his arm none-too-gently and Lo’s blue eyes blinking wearily at him. “ _Daaaaaaaaaaaad_.”   
  
He blinks back at her for a minute before getting his bearings, “What’s the matter?”   
  
“Daddy made me go back to bed, but I don’t feel good,” she tells him pitifully. “Can I stay with you?”   
  
Ryan probably had good reason to send her back to bed – if anything, he’s normally too soft with her. Lo isn’t above attention-seeking late at night, above getting out of bed after-hours on flimsy excuses. But it’s awfully late even for her usual shenanigans, so Michael decides to meet her halfway.  “How about I come to your room?”   
  
Lo nods and lets him lead her out with none of her usual verve. He doesn’t have the faintest idea why she bothered when it’s obvious all she wants is to be in bed asleep.   
  
He realizes why she bothered when she doubles over and empties the contents of her stomach all over her bedroom floor. Dinner – maybe even lunch – from the looks of it.   
  
Michael barely has time to react but Lo’s swaying forward when she’s done so he gathers her up in his arms and carries her into the bathroom, rubbing her back all the while and making soothing noises. He barely has time to set her down in front of the toilet and lift the seat before she’s sick again. The second bout has her crying.   
  
He knows from experience not to try to make her brush her teeth right away (it would just trigger another round), so he just gets a cup of water for her to rinse the taste out of her mouth. Once he’s sure she’s not about to fall over, he stands up to –   
  
“Dad, no, _please_ –” She just barely gets it out and it kills him, but he has to – it’ll only be a minute.   
  
“I’m going to get Daddy, OK?”   
  
She dips her head a little and he takes that as a nod.   
  
Once he’s gotten down the hall, he knocks twice on Ryan’s door and calls his name. “Ryan.” Louder. “Ryan!”  Another knock on the door. But he really doesn’t have time to waste, so he turns the knob and lets himself in, struggling not to trip in the dark and unfamiliar room. He should’ve left the door open wider. He finally feels his way over to the bed and turns on the bedside lamp. He realizes a split second too late that Ryan might –   
  
No, he’s dressed.  (Michael can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed.)   
  
The unexpected lights are enough to wake Ryan up and he stretches, blinking in confusion before his eyes widen. “Mike?”   
  
“Lo’s sick. She threw up and I took her into the bathroom and she got sick again. I’m not sure what’s wrong but I wanted you to stay with her while I clean up her room so I can get her to bed,” Michael tells him without preamble.   
  
“She came here and I just walked her back to her room and made her go back to bed,” Ryan tells him guiltily a beat later. “I didn’t –”   
  
“You didn’t _know_ , you couldn’t –”   
  
“I should’ve –”   
  
“I wouldn’t have if she hadn’t thrown up right in front of me.”   
  
Ryan throws off the covers and nearly runs to the bathroom. Once he’s determined Lo’s as all right as she can be considering she’s been sick twice in the space of ten minutes, he volunteers to clean up. “She always wants you when she’s sick, man.” It’s true, so Michael stays instead. He’s still sitting on the floor holding her a little bit later when Ryan comes back, phone to his ear.   
  
“What are you –”   
  
“Hey, Nate –” (Oh.) “I know it’s the middle of the night but um, Lo’s sick and I just wanted to – Yeah. OK, so Mike said she’s thrown up twice already. She didn’t really eat much at dinner, she’s just been kinda quiet all day; I thought she was just tired, since you know, traveling. Uh huh, lemme –” Ryan turns to him. “She have a fever?”   
  
“Let me check, um –” Lo _feels_ feverish, but he needs an exact read. “Can you –”   
  
Ryan tells Nathan that they need to check first, then moves to sit down on the floor, back against the cabinets under the sink, and pulls Lo onto his lap. She curls into him, head on his chest as Michael digs around for the thermometer. Lo very reluctantly opens her mouth when he holds it out to her.   
  
It’s not terribly high, thank goodness, but it’s still a fever.   
  
Most likely it’s a stomach flu.   
  
Ultimately, Nathan doesn’t tell them much they don’t already know (Ryan puts him on speaker): “Take Lauren to the emergency room if she doesn’t stop vomiting after 48 hours, if the fever goes over 101, if she gets dehydrated, if she has abdominal pain.” (She doesn’t. The last symptom would be especially worrying because it can signal appendicitis. But that’s unlikely. They’re just paranoid.) “Otherwise, make sure she stays hydrated – give her the appropriate dose of Pedialyte in 4-6 hours and as much water as she wants – frequently, but in small quantities. Once she can actually keep something down, start her off with bland foods. Start small with crackers or toast. Then bananas, rice, chicken, etcetera, _when she can handle it_.”   
  
Last but not least: “Call the pediatrician because I’m not a licensed MD yet.” They usually ignore the last one because the pediatrician won’t tell them much different. Of course, they’ll take Lo in to see her immediately if necessary.   
  
\---   
  
“Her room’s ready – I cleaned up, there’s a bucket and a trash can, plus some paper towels and stuff,” Ryan whispers, trying not to jostle Lo, who’s nestled against him half-asleep. “There’s water, too. I’ll get Pedialyte in the morning.” But when he tries to hand her over, she snuggles in more, mumbling “I feel so _bad_ , Daddy” and sounding so pitiful that Ryan stops mid-attempt and carries her into her room himself.   
  
Michael’s following them when he sees Ollie emerge from his room, rumpled and sleepy-looking. “Why –”   
  
“Your sister’s sick.”   
  
Ollie looks concerned. It’s a strange expression to see on a five-year-old. “Oh. Can I –”   
  
“No, it’s the flu. We don’t want you to get sick, so let’s get you back to bed, OK?” Michael tells him, leading him back to his room and tucking him in again. “Tell Lo _feel better_ ,” Ollie insists between yawns.   
  
“Of course, Olls. She’ll be fine.”   
  
When he gets back to Lo’s room, she’s settled in bed, tucked in carefully with her pillows fluffed. Ryan’s sitting in a chair on one side of her bed, holding her hand.   
  
“It looks like you’ve got things under control.”   
  
“Yeah, well – if you want to go to bed, we can take turns or something so there’s somebody here –”   
  
“I –”   
  
“Dad?”   
  
“You want Dad to stay?”   
  
Lo shakes her head, looking at Ryan. “You too.”   
  
Michael pulls a chair over to the other side of Lo’s bed and takes her free hand, sitting quietly and brushing her hair back with his other hand as Ryan’s whispered words lull her to sleep.   
  
(It feels like a lifetime ago, but Michael can’t help but remember the NICU, remember hovering over the twins as Ryan whispered to a fretful baby Lauren and Oliver slept peacefully right next to her.)   
  
\---   
  
Lo doesn’t stay asleep, of course. She’s sick again (more than once). The only thing Michael does all day besides keep an eye on her (along with Ryan – she gets agitated whenever one of them tries to leave her bedside; at this rate they’ll have to get something delivered for the rest of them when dinner time rolls around) is call Elizabeth to ask if she can cover their turn for the carpool.   
  
“Don’t worry; it’s not your turn today, anyway. It’s Wednesday and _Friday_. Monday hasn’t been your turn since –” She coughs. _Since Ryan moved back_ , Michael finishes silently for her. Their friends are most comfortable acting as though they never separated. He apologizes for the confusion and thanks her for her concern for Lo before hanging up.   
  
Michael goes back to Lo’s room to relieve Ryan, since he needs to get Ollie ready for school and doesn’t bother asking about the carpool change.   
  
\---   
  
They’re so caught up in taking care of Lo that they barely notice how the news of Ryan’s withdrawal from Short Course Worlds blows up in the swimming world.   
  
It’s such a contrast to the last time one of the kids was sick.   
  
\---   
  
Ollie has a bout of food poisoning over the summer, most likely from something at Michael’s surprise birthday party. (Dinner was a backyard barbecue.)   
  
After running out in the pre-dawn hours to buy Pedialyte and some things Ollie might be able to keep down once his stomach’s up to it, Ryan heads to practice as usual, only checking in once between sets, while Michael’s left to get Lo ready for camp _and_ wait on Ollie hand and foot. He doesn’t resent taking care of Ollie or getting Lo through her daily routine – they’re his _kids_ and being a parent isn’t just the fun stuff. It’s more than Christmas and bedtime stories and days at the park, after all. First and foremost, it’s the little day-to-day things. He knew what he was signing up for and he loves them with all his heart.   
  
That doesn’t mean he’s not irritated and frustrated. With _Ryan_.   
  
That doesn’t change the fact that it doesn’t seem _fair_ that Ryan gets to skip out and go to practice (and fly out for an appearance that night) as if it’s just another day.   
  
Michael’s got commitments and responsibilities beyond those to their children (even if the kids are most important), not to mention social plans ( _plans_ he’d been planning to cancel after the party, but that’s not the point), but Ryan’s swimming and the strings attached to it always come first. It chafes more and more with every day that’s passed since Rio.   
  
It isn’t the first time this has happened either.   
  
When Ryan was getting ready for Rio, they had a part-time nanny – there was no way they could’ve gotten by without the extra help with Michael so heavily involved in that training. (There hadn't had much of a choice; Michael's mother was in Maryland, and Ryan had been strangely reluctant to ask Ike for help. To be honest, it was probably for the best that they didn't have their mothers breathing down their necks.) It’s not like they could bring the twins to the pool with them every day.   
  
(After their first visit, when Ryan pushed their stroller all through the O’Connell Center, introducing them to teammates and staff he’s known for years, showing them around the facility he knows like the back of his hand – as though there was any way they would understand him and remember it – they rarely brought Ollie and Lo with them.)   
  
But the nanny days were meant to end after Rio. For better or worse, they did, and Michael bears the brunt of the responsibility now.   
  
Ryan _looks_ guilty, of course (he always does), but the bottom line is that the outcome never changes. He just gets in the car or the taxi or on the plane or whatever method of transportation takes him away from their _family_ to things that are apparently more important – practice or clinics or sponsorship appearances or God knows what else. (Michael doesn’t bother to listen as closely anymore.)   
  
Not that Michael doesn’t have some of those things, not to mention his foundation. And there’s other things he could probably be doing if he had the time. (Sometimes he thinks longingly of the golfing he could be doing on a regular basis, the golfing he _did_ do for a bit immediately after retiring.) But _he_ has to be the responsible one, planning his life around the kids _and_ Ryan when Ryan doesn’t show him the same courtesy.   
  
However well-intentioned, no surprise birthday party can make up for two years of the same.   
  
When Ollie recovers, Michael resumes his regularly scheduled _plans_.


	16. Take Care of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hears Ryan before he sees him.

 

Two mornings after getting sick, Lo seems to be nearly as good as new. A little tired, but well enough for school despite her protests when Michael goes into wake her. (With Lo, protesting is a sign everything is A-OK.) That wouldn’t have happened if Ollie hadn’t come to find him fifteen minutes past their usual wake-up call. He’s concerned, but figures their long days have taken a toll on Ryan and he probably just slept through his alarm. He forgets that concern pretty quickly as he hustles the twins through their morning routine over Lo’s objections.  
  
It should be a piece of cake – he’s done this forever, after all – but he’s a little rusty. At least they’re only 5 minutes behind schedule (that required ignoring Lo’s complaints over the state of her hair) to pick up Charlie, then Evan. Elizabeth’s confusion is written on her face when they arrive – he’s not sure whether it’s over their delay or seeing him in the driver’s seat again – but she doesn’t comment, instead just saying that it’s good to see him and telling the kids to have a good day.  
  
Michael drives a little faster than he likes to with all the kids in the car, but they get to school in one piece and on time, miraculously. Thankfully. (Mrs. Jones is extremely strict about punctuality and she doesn’t hesitate to give parents an earful over it – Olympians or no. She’s an equal opportunity disciplinarian and the last thing he needs is to get called into the principal’s office for a long discussion about how disruptive tardiness is when it comes to a quality education.)  
  
\---  
  
When Michael gets back to the house, Ryan’s car is still in the driveway. In and of itself, that’s not surprising anymore. What _is_ surprising is that he’s not in the living room or kitchen or any other rooms on the first floor. Ryan’s too used to getting up early to sleep in very late even when he’s tired. But he must be today.  
  
Once he gets upstairs, Michael realizes he was wrong.  
  
He hears Ryan before he sees him.  
  
“Ry?”  
  
“What?” His voice sounds awfully faint.  
  
“You OK? Can I come in?”  
  
“No, don’t.  I’m –” There he goes again.  
  
“I’m not sure a stomach flu qualifies as OK,” Michael counters as he walks into the bathroom. Ryan’s slumped over the toilet, looking as miserable as Lo had been and pale under his fading tan.  
  
“I’ll live,” Ryan mumbles, forehead against the porcelain.  
  
“That’s not a very high bar.” Michael’s first impulse is to rub his back like he did for Lo two nights ago, but his brain catches up with him. He’s not sure he can handle Ryan recoiling from his touch again.  
  
“Where’re the kids? I –” Ryan asks, still leaning his forehead against the porcelain.  
  
“Ollie came to get me after you didn’t wake them up and –”  
  
“Sorry I –”  
  
“I wasn’t – Don’t worry about it. You’re sick. It wasn’t a big deal. I got them to school just fine.”  
  
“Thanks,” Ryan mumbles, still not looking up.  
  
“Don’t –”  
  
Ryan lifts his head over the bowl and heaves again, but nothing comes up this time.  
  
Michael ignores his brain and goes with his initial impulse, telling himself to ignore any flinching on Ryan’s part.  
  
He doesn’t though. (He’s probably too ill to notice much of anything.)  
  
“You have a bucket and stuff in your room?” Michael asks after a little while. It’s been long enough that it makes sense to try to get him back to bed.  
  
“Ran to throw up.”  
  
“When was that?”  
  
“Hours?”  
  
“OK, just sit tight. Don’t go –” If he were up to it, Ryan would absolutely be laughing at him – like, _where am I gonna go right now, Mike? Crawl down the hall?_ “I’ll be right back.” Thankfully, there’s nothing to clean up, so all Michael has to do is make sure a bucket’s in easy reach, plus water and Gatorade for later. For good measure, he plumps up the pillows.  
  
When he gets back to the bathroom, he helps Ryan to his feet over his protests.  
  
“Not a gimp,” Ryan mumbles, even as he leans on Michael for support.  
  
“You’re not,” Michael agrees. “Just throwing-up-for-hours sick.” Once Ryan’s settled in bed, he adds, “I’ll get the thermometer.”  
  
Ryan’s temperature is hovering high enough that he ought to see a doctor if it doesn’t go down soon. Michael will have to keep a close eye on him.  
  
Michael doesn’t move despite Ryan’s half-finished protests. (“Don’t need –” “Gonna be f –”) after a little while, his “just let me take care of you, all right?” doesn’t get too much resistance. It’s not like Ryan has much energy to fight him on it; it’s obvious this flu’s taking a lot out of him.  
  
\---  
  
The pattern continues for the rest of the afternoon until the kids get home from school. Ollie has a swimming lesson, so once he’s ready for that, Michael checks on Ryan one last time (“I’ll be back soon”) before leading the kids out to the car.  
  
“Why do I have to go?” Lo huffs in the backseat, arms crossed unhappily.  
  
“Well, Ollie has his lesson and Daddy’s sick and can’t watch you.”  
  
“Daddy’s sick?” Ollie asks.  
  
“Yeah, like Lo was.”  
  
“You got Daddy sick!” Ollie tells his sister accusingly. (Michael can see him frowning at her in the rearview mirror and would slap himself for his stupidity if he didn’t need to keep his hands on the wheel – Ollie obviously remembers how Michael shooed him away from Lo’s room the first night she was sick.)  
  
“Did not!”  
  
“Did so!”  
  
“Did _not_!”  
  
“Did not!”  
  
“Did _so_!”  
  
“See!”  
  
“You tricked me!”  
  
“ _Guys_ ,” he cuts in wearily. “Let’s just – I’m going to put on the radio and we’re all going to listen and not talk for a while, OK?”  
  
Unbelievably, they actually listen. The only sound in the car for the rest of the ride (even after they pick Charlie up) is the local Top 40 station.  
  
\---  
  
Ryan wasn’t wrong at the Golden Goggles. Ollie is already a better swimmer than the other kids in his class. (The only one who comes close is Charlie; they’re both proof genes really do count for something.)  
  
It’s a little unnerving. Perhaps not that surprising given the family legacy yet – Michael can’t help but wonder if it’s a good thing or not. Swimming did so much for him – and Ryan, too – but still . . .  
  
He can’t follow that train of thought too far because he has to keep Lo (who’s apparently forgotten their tiff earlier) from cheering for Ollie. That’s not exactly appropriate at a lesson; it’s not a competition, after all. Between watching Ollie’s progress and keeping an eye on Lo, the lesson goes by surprisingly quickly.  
  
When they drop Charlie off, Nathan stops to chat (he’s better at hiding his surprise than Elizabeth was in the morning) and gives Lo an assessing look, cheerfully asking her if she was sure she’d been sick because she doesn’t look like it.  
  
“I was _so_ ,” she answers dramatically, launching into a re-telling of just how yucky it was that Michael has to cut off 1) for the sake of everyone’s appetites (it’s times like these he realizes his daughter really does need to spend more time with other little girls than she already does – though in this case she’s most likely just seeking attention from Nathan and knows this is the best way of getting it) and 2) because it’s been a while since they left the house and it’s a long time to leave Ryan alone.  
  
He picks up dinner on the way back – there’s no way he’ll have time to cook tonight. Nothing too complicated – Lo’s stomach probably still isn’t up too anything too heavy or flavorful. Chicken, rice, some steamed vegetables.  
  
Baths go before dinner on swim days and Ollie has the first bath. “What do you want to do while you wait?” Michael asks Lo, before realizing he probably should’ve offered her some options first so she doesn’t choose anything crazy.  
  
“Pictures for Daddy?”  
  
Easy enough. “But no –”  
  
“Drawing on the wall,” the twins finish in unison.  
  
\---  
  
The kids are remarkably cooperative that night; yes, they make faces at their vegetables, but at least Lo doesn’t get upset over her bath (thank God) and one bedtime story does the trick, so Michael’s not especially tired once they’re asleep.   
  
He’s been checking in on Ryan sporadically throughout the evening. Not much has changed, except he’s more tired than he was earlier that afternoon, falls asleep more readily, if also more fitfully, between rounds. It’s worse than Lo’s case, but at least his fever hasn’t risen.  
  
Michael’s glad he didn’t have much going on today; otherwise, it might’ve been hours longer before he realized, because it’s obvious Ryan wasn’t about to ask for help, even if he felt like shit.  
  
It’s classic Ryan.  
  
\---  
  
When Ryan gets sick in Beijing, just days before they’re supposed to compete, he keeps it from Steve and Gregg as long as humanly possible and insists he’s fine even as they’re hooking him up to an IV. Cullen tells Michael that after the fact, shaking his head in disbelief.  
  
They’re off at the moment, but Michael still considers stopping by the infirmary to see him. After all, if it were him, Ryan might already be there. (Unless Gregg got to him first. Not that Ryan always listens to Gregg. Gregg’s used to it.) But Bob tells him point-blank not to go; it’s not entirely clear whether or not Ryan’s still (if he was ever) contagious.  
  
To be perfectly honest, Bob would probably throw himself in front of a Mac truck to stop Michael from going. He’s not allowed to fuck things up at this point. Bob will do whatever it takes to prevent that, so Michael settles for calling Ryan instead.  
  
“So much for kicking ass and taking names,” Ryan says when he picks up. He sounds tired, hoarse (probably his throat’s scraped up), but he’s smiling. Michael can hear it in his voice. Somehow, Ryan’s still smiling (however faintly). In his place, Michael would probably be throwing things. Maybe even breaking them.  
  
Ryan’s no Pollyanna; of course he gets bummed out like anybody else and this is a huge setback – not to mention a tremendous disappointment when you’ve been preparing for the Olympics from pretty much the second you finished your last race four years ago. But at his core, Ryan’s unrelentingly positive in a way Michael could never be.  
  
“You’ve got time,” Michael tells him, not knowing what else to say.  
  
“Yeah.” (No _jeah_. He may be feeling positive, but maybe not all that much.)  
  
“How are you doing?”  
  
“All right. Better.” Silence.  
  
“Well, um – I’ll let you go. You probably need to rest.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Feel better.”  
  
“Thanks, man.”  
  
“Talk to you soon.”  
  
\---  
  
They don’t speak again until the 400 IM final.  
  
Ryan doesn’t look entirely himself – days in the infirmary will do that to you – but he manages a smile when he congratulates Cseh, smiles even bigger when he congratulates Michael and tells him he’s proud. “You did good, Mike. _Really_ good.” He elbows Michael companionably, adding, “Just seven to go.”  
  
Never mind that Michael just swam past him for gold medal #1 and will have to swim right past him again if he’s going to get gold medal number #6.  
  
(If there were a gold medal for sportsmanship, Ryan would win it every time.)  
  
Nobody deserves an individual gold more than Ryan; the only thing that makes Michael happier than hearing the results of the 200 back final those Olympics is the relief of winning gold medal #8.  
  
\---  
  
Ryan’s still feverish (no change, unfortunately) and having a hard time keeping down liquids (Michael worries he’ll get dehydrated), but a little more lucid over time.  
  
“Got nothing better to do?”  
  
“Not really. Even if I did, what am I supposed to do? Let you choke on your own vomit? I’d have a hard time collecting on the life insurance if I did that,” he answers with a laugh.  
  
“Cuz you need it so bad.”  
  
“Didn’t I tell you I’ve been gambling in my spare time?  
  
“Now that you don’t have –” Ryan coughs abruptly.  
  
“Don’t have what?”  
  
“Nothing,” Ryan says, clearly evading the question for some reason. He closes his eyes and leans back against his pillows.  
  
“Try to get some sleep, OK?”  
  
Ryan blinks, opening his eyes. “What about you?”  
  
“Don’t worry, I will.”  
  
“You’re here.”  
  
“What’s wrong with here?”  
  
“Can’t sleep in a chair.”  
  
“We did before.”  
  
“Not comfortable.”  
  
“I’ll live.”  
  
Ryan looks annoyed. “Might get sick but – c’mere.”  
  
“Here? Where?”  
  
“It’s a big bed,” Ryan gives him a pointed look. How he can manage that through half-closed lids Michael will never know. “ _Let’s be adults_.” (Michael’s own words from Thanksgiving.)  
  
Does he really–? “I – if I’m gonna get sick, I’m probably halfway there already.” But he lies down with his head at the foot of the bed and feet near the headboard just to be safe.  
  
“Eww, feet in my face. Bucket, please,” Ryan grumbles.  
  
“I don’t wanna get sick. And if you’re complaining, you obviously feel better.” Like father, like daughter, after all. “You’re the only person I know who _doesn’t_ complain when they’re actually sick.”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Beijing ring a bell?”  
  
\---  
  
Michael’s not quite right: it takes Ryan a full 24 hours longer to recover than it did Lo.  
  
He hates to see Ryan suffer, but sometimes good things come out of the bad.  
  
For instance, Ryan concedes that their time-honored Friday night dinner is OK if they’re good the rest of the week.  
  
(Ryan won’t be up to it this Friday, so they’ll pick it up the tradition a week from now.  
  
His mouth is watering just thinking about it.  
  
He’s pretty confident Ryan’s is, too, even if he won’t admit it.)  
  
Even better is the fact that Ryan asks for his sketchbook once he’s on the mend.  
  
 _They_ seem a little better now, too.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Drake’s “Take Care.” (It makes sense to me, jeah? Once you set aside “I know you’ve been hurt by someone else.”)


	17. For Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anyway, at least nobody knows about Mean Girls."

 

Michael walks into the kitchen, rolling his shoulders to stretch out his sore muscles. (The extra-hot post-workout shower only helped so much.)   
  
He’s started a new fitness regimen. But he’s only working on stuff out of the water at the moment because, even in the face of Ryan’s looming retirement, Michael wants to wait for him before getting back in the pool in any meaningful way.   
  
He’s learned his lesson about listening to his mother, even as he tries not to dwell too long on pointless _if onlys_. He’s trying to take her advice this time around, trying not to push, trying not to force things on Ryan that he’s not ready for, whether it means returning to the water or questions about their marriage Michael’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answers to.   
  
It’s not easy, but he’s trying.   
  
(Still, every now and again the voice in the back of his mind whispers _there’s still time_.  
  
Not very much, though.)  
  
He notices something he’d meant to ask Ryan about earlier when he’d gotten back from dropping the kids off, but Ryan had been heading to the shower and then _he’d_ left for his workout. It’s a stupid question, but he’s curious and since Ryan is sitting at the kitchen table anyway, headphones on (probably the French again, given the silent movements of his lips) and sketching intently (his interest in his long-tabled line recently reignited), he’ll ask now. Michael taps him gently on the shoulder so as not to startle him.   
  
Ryan doesn’t tense like Michael (still) expects; he just pulls out an ear bud and cocks his head. “Yeah?”  
  
“I saw the rainbow cake on the rack – don’t worry, I didn’t help myself or anything. But what’s up with that? It’s not like, vegan and wholesome or anything. And it’s not gingerbread and sugar cookies. You know, Christmas food. What’s the deal?” Michael asks as he walks over to the stove to see what’s in the skillet.  
  
(Scrambled egg whites.   
  
Yum.   
  
Well, at least there’s bacon – turkey, of course – and tomatoes involved. Peppers and mushrooms, too, he notices happily as he serves himself and snags some – whole wheat – bread from the toaster oven.  
  
It’ll all go well with some fresh-squeezed orange juice.  
  
Actually, make that grapefruit. Also fresh-squeezed.)  
  
“It’s not for us,” Ryan gives him a pointed look. Michael throws up his hands, jerking his head at the healthy breakfast he’s just set down in front of himself, which apparently is enough to satisfy Ryan. “It’s for Lo’s troop and I was stuck on what to make because after Thanksgiving _everybody_ makes sugar cookies and gingerbread houses and gingerbread men and that’s just boring. I mean, they’re good – and mine would be the _best_.” (It’s reassuring to hear Ryan’s ego reasserting itself for once.) “But you know I don’t do boring. I remembered _Mean Girls_ and the whole rainbow cake thing the other day. So yeah, rainbow cake.”   
  
( _I wish that I could bake a cake made out of rainbows and smiles and we'd all eat it and be happy._  
  
It’s really too bad they _can’t_.  
  
Things may better, but they’re nowhere near rainbows in their house.)  
  
“I mean, I need to do something for the holiday party for Ollie’s later, but rainbow cake isn’t gonna fly with five year old _Cub_ Scouts. I would’ve laughed my ass off if my mom made rainbow cake and expected me and Devon to eat it.  But Kris and Megan? She wouldn’t have had to tell them twice. Little girls love that kind of stuff, dude. If Lo wasn’t already the coolest Daisy, this would do the trick,” Ryan continues.  
  
“No, I think it might’ve been the dress up wardrobe you talked Natalie into designing them,” Michael counters around a forkful of eggs. “I don’t know why you didn’t do it yourself, though.” (When could he have, though? That was back when he was still tr – No, Michael’s not going to think about it in the middle of a conversation that’s maybe sliding into something other than just civil.)  
  
“I have _some_ boundaries. It’s one thing to design for your daughter or, like, other women in your family. Labor of love and all that. Great for gifts. You can’t go wrong because either they love it or they don’t, but they won’t _tell_ you because it took forever and you can totally get away with _it’s the thought that counts_. But doing that for other people’s daughters crosses the line, like _destroys_ the line. Anyway, it was totally letting them play with our medals that sealed the deal.”  
  
“Or maybe it was Lo talking Ollie into kissing that little girl with the crush on him.”  
  
“Poor kid, he’s too nice of a brother for his own good,” Ryan shakes his head, clearly remembering the horrors he endured at Kristin and Megan’s hands until Devon came along to share in the torture.  
  
(Michael’s pretty sure that’s at least part of the reason why Ryan and Devon are so close. Two against the tyrants, because Brandon was the baby and got off easy.  
  
Thankfully Hilary and Whitney didn’t get away with much when _they_ were kids.)  
  
Ryan continues, “We need to do something about that or Lo’s going to pimp him out on the regular by the time they hit double digits. Um, pretty sure that’s not legal actually. But, um, really, we can’t have them end up in juvie. My ass is grass if that happens. Mom wouldn’t stop at disowning me; she’d kill me. It’d be bloody. Like, you wouldn’t even be able to put me in an open casket. Or ID the body. But then at least you wouldn’t have to worry about, like, convincing the police it wasn’t your fault,” he adds, obviously thinking back to when he was sick.  
  
“Pretty sure I wouldn’t be alive to enjoy my inheritance, considering _my_ mother would get to me first. They’d probably help each other hide the remains.” Michael shudders a bit before taking a bite of toast.   
  
“No, they wouldn’t. They’d use us to set an example for the rest of the family.”  
  
“But – no, you’re right.” Michael has _no_ idea how they got to imagining how their mothers would react to the twins becoming juvenile delinquents and what the consequences would be for the two of them. He shouldn’t be all that surprised, though; it’s not an uncommon occurrence when he’s talking with Ryan. (It’s just been a while since they’ve had a non-confrontational conversation that goes on long enough to meander like this. Ryan hadn’t been up to _very_ long chats when he was sick.) “Anyway, I think Charlie and Evan still haven’t let him live it down.”  
  
“Because girls have cooties, duh. _Except Lo_ ,” Ryan says in a childish tone. Michael’s not entirely sure which of their friends’ sons he’s mimicking, because they’re both a little bit ~~terrified of~~ in awe of Lo. (Not to mention that she can hold her own in most games despite her distinctly girly ways.) “Anyway, it’s lucky I’m like, the least flaming guy ever. Otherwise that cake would be such a fucking cliché.”   
  
“Except for, you know, the whole painting our daughter’s nails and doing her hair better than most _women_ thing. You help her with ballet. Do I need to remind you about the bedazzled tutus and leotards? And _The Notebook_ makes you cry, can’t forget –” Michael stops himself up short, hoping he hasn’t said the wrong thing, hasn’t made it so Ryan clams up again, considering . . .   
  
Ryan shakes his head, makes a face, but much to his relief, keeps talking. “Dude, that’s a secret. We don’t talk about that _ever_ , remember? You never know who might be listening.”  
  
“I hate to break it to you, Ry, but Devon told like, all of America, remember?”  
  
“Fucking Dev. Maybe they forgot by now.” Ryan laughs a little.   
  
Michael laughs too, “Yeah, not likely, but if that helps you sleep at night, by all means. But wait, there’s _Bambi_ , remember when we did those, like, National Team videos?”  
  
“Uh, _yeah_ , I remember. I remember you pussy-footing around the question, babbling about _Act of Valor_ and America and patriotism and shit. That shit was _weak_.”  
  
“ _America and patriotism and shit_? Man, tell me how you really feel about the US of A.”  
  
“What-fucking-ever, I did my part. Anyway, at least nobody knows about _Mean Girls_.”  
  
Ryan’s still smiling. So is he. It’s nice. “I feel like Lo’s gonna figure us out someday and spill the beans if we keep saying _FOUR for you_ , _Lo Coco. You go, Lo Coco!_ ”  
  
“Here you go, one for you, Ollie . . . And _none for Tyler Wieners, bye_ ,” Ryan snickers.   
  
(Fucking Clary. Michael _still_ has that Run Over Tyler boat; it’s one of Ollie’s favorite toys.)  
  
“Tyler Wieners knows everybody's business, he knows everything about everyone.”   
  
“That's why his hair is so big, _it's full of secrets_ ,” Ryan continues, opening his eyes extra-wide. (Never mind that Clary’s practically bald.)  
  
“And of course, I never told anybody that because I am such a good friend!” Michael tries his best to affect a high-pitched girly voice. (It’s barely passable.)  
  
“I know he's kind of socially retarded and weird, but he's my friend . . . so, just promise me you won't make fun of him!” Ryan’s Valley girl – really Flo-Bro-trying-to-be-a-Valley-girl – voice is a _bit_ better. Then he breaks character to add, “But for real, if I ever _actually_ call Tyler fucking Clary my friend, find me a straightjacket and take me straight to the loony bin, no detours, promise?” He’s serious for a split second until Michael nods. Ryan can’t contain himself any longer.  
  
(Much like he barely held it together when Lo had puked all over Clary – and his silver medal – in Rio.  
  
Apparently whatever Michael and Mom and Ike fed the kids that day – he couldn’t remember for the life of him – hadn’t agreed with her.   
  
Caroline – Clary’s wife, who seemed like a surprisingly decent woman considering she was married to such a dick – was genuinely interested in the kids, asking Michael all sorts of questions about the twins and wanting to hear more about what it was like for them as a family while Ryan was still competing.   
  
She was clearly interested in starting a family sooner rather than later. Michael pitied their future children. Because, yeah, she’d do well enough as a mother, but Tyler Clary as a father? Those kids were doomed to douchebaggery from the start.   
  
As they sat waiting for the 200 back medal ceremony, Caroline pulled faces at Ollie to make him laugh and smoothed Lo’s curls – no matter how hard he tried Michael _could not_ get her hair to behave. Poor kid; “Daddy’s racing” was not a good look for her.  
  
When Ryan and Clary spotted them sitting together in the stands afterwards, they – reluctantly – made their way over together. After accepting Clary’s flowers, Caroline passed Lo to him, cooing about how adorable she was and _I hope ours are just like this!_  
  
Both Michael and Ryan had to make super-human efforts not to snatch their daughter away in mid-pass. Because where Caroline had been bright and bubbly and won the twins over easily, Clary was ill at ease, trying to tamp down his ingrained hostility toward the fathers of the child his wife had thrust at him.   
  
Lo seemed to sense the change immediately.  
  
But she was right as rain within half an hour.)  
  
Michael sniggers before resuming their train of conversation with a sudden thought, “Wait, wait, when the kids are older, we can totally skip the sex talk! Just, guys, _don't have sex, because you will get pregnant and_ die! Well, I mean, Ollie’s a boy, but . . . _Don't have sex in the missionary position, don't have sex standing up, just don't do it, OK, promise_?”  
  
“And they’ll agree and everything will be perfect.” Ryan grins, holding his hand up for a high five.   
  
“Or else we’ll ground them.” There’s a fist bump and a smirk for that.   
  
“Are they not supposed to be let out when they're grounded?”  
  
“I _can’t_.”   
  
God, they haven’t laughed like this in _ages_. They’re practically crying with it. Michael laughs so hard he starts choking on air.   
  
Ryan thumps him on the back, chuckles dying down a little, “You OK, Mike?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.”    
  
Ryan stills his hand, but doesn’t move it. “Just making sure. Don’t want you, like, actually dying laughing on me. The cops so wouldn’t buy it. Then there goes the insurance money.” His eyes are still dancing.  
  
“Probably not,” Michael shakes his head with a grin, trying not to think too much about the hand on his back. But he’s as aware of it as he’d be of a burning brand through his clothes. If he thinks about it too hard –  
  
Ryan finally (unfortunately) removes it. The loss of contact is almost painful; Michael had nearly forgotten how much he missed it, but now he _can’t_.  
  
(Hopefully he won’t have to wait so long again.)  
  
Ryan clears his throat. “So uh, you done?”  
  
Michael looks down at his plate – he got distracted talking, so there’s at least a couple bites’ worth of egg scramble left. But it’s probably cold and he’s full enough, so he gets up to clear his tableware and put it in the dishwasher. “Yeah, wh –”  
  
“You up for some Madden?”   
  
“It’s been a while.” (Michael tries not to dwell on how much of a while.) “I’m a little rusty, but I bet I still kick your ass.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah MP. Let’s see you back that big talk up.”  
  
“You wanna bet on it?”  
  
“How about . . .” Ryan pauses to think. “Loser does the vacuuming for a month?” (Not their usual bet, but their usual bet is hardly an option at the moment.) Vacuuming is one of the chores they’ve decided to split now that they’re making an effort to divide their responsibilities up equally, rather than sticking one or the other with the brunt of it. (A discussion they had during Ryan’s flu.)  
  
“You’re on. Better get excited about all that quality time with the Hoover.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let’s see who’s laughing when I win. Besides the dust bunnies attacking your flat ass.”  
  
 _You liked my flat ass just fine._ Before. “Nope, they’re gonna be having too much fun with the infamous _Lochte Ghetto Booty_ while me and my flat ass are at the gym,” Michael shoots back as he heads to the living room.  
  
“ _Legendary_ Lochte Ghetto Booty, man,” Ryan corrects from behind him. “Legendary. Devon’s like, trademarking that shit, so get it right.”  
  
\---  
  
Ryan wins the first round – the one their bet is riding on – but they spend the rest of the afternoon glued to their controllers, losing track of time so the arrival of the kids catches them by surprise.  
  
As soon as they finish their last round, Lo drags Ryan off to the barre to practice what she learned in class yesterday. It’s probably for the best, since Michael’s got to get Ollie to his swimming lesson anyway.  
  
Michael smiles the whole way there and back.  
  
And it’s not because Ollie and Charlie are suspiciously – even by Adrian standards – well-behaved. If anything, that would normally worry him.  
  
But today he can take a little mischief.  
  
(Because things are getting a little better now.) 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Mean Girls. If only I did; it’s an awesome movie. I also don’t own any of the other movies mentioned here.


	18. For Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening.

 

Ryan wakes up to his cell ringing at – he has to squint to see the clock across the room – 6:00 AM. _Before_ , he would’ve already been up. He probably would’ve been on his way to the pool. Now it’s too fucking _early_ for a Saturday. _Never_ a good sign.   
  
_Erika Wright_ flashes on the screen. A worse sign.   
  
“Hello?”   
  
“Ryan?”   
  
“Erika, just ‘cause you call at ass o’clock doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind about retiring –” He tells her, even as he knows, somehow, half-asleep as he is, that’s not what this is about.   
  
“Ryan, _listen to me_. I’m in a car. Going to the airport. To get on a plane. Right now. I’m taking the first one I can get out of here. It’ll take a while, because God knows getting a connection to Gainesville isn’t easy, but I will be there as soon as humanly possible. In the meantime, don’t leave the house. And absolutely do not let _Michael_ leave the house.”   
  
She’s freaking him out. Freaking him _the fuck_ out. “Erika, what the –”   
  
“There’s a story on _TMZ_ and it’s _bad_ – like, true or not, it’s an actual crisis, not like that stupid Perez thing, and we need to do damage control. I don’t want to freak you out, but I need to be straight with you: it’s spreading fast and only going to spread faster. I don’t want to ask you about it, we’re not going to talk about it on the phone, OK? Just don’t leave the house.”   
  
He’s going to check, of course he’s going to check, but now he _knows_. “I – OK.”   
  
“I’ll arrange for security on-call in case, you know, the paps get out of hand. And I think these are not conversations you’re going to want to have in front of the kids. If I were you, I’d get them out of the house. Quickly. Like before anybody has a chance to stake out right outside. Pretty much now, just to be safe. It doesn’t take all that long to get some paps in from Miami once things really get going.”   
  
“Erika – I can’t – it’ll scare them.” He’s up and pacing now.   
  
“The paps would scare them more. I – if it were me, I wouldn’t want _my_ children around for this and they’re older than yours,” Erika counters. “I don’t want to scare _you_ , but this is going to get out of control. Quickly.”   
  
His gut’s right. She knows. Or she knows enough and has guessed the rest. If she does and she _has_. . .   
  
So will everyone else. _My God_. This can’t be happening. _This cannot be happening._ Not _now_ , not when – His legs are about to give out under him (and he feels like he’s about to throw up last night’s pizza and wings and beer), so he drops back onto the bed.   
  
Phone still in hand, he leans back against the headboard, pulling the covers over himself like when he was a kid convinced (trying to convince Devon, who actually _was_ scared) that that was all it took to keep the monsters under the bed away. “I – I can – I don’t know, I feel like _we_ shouldn’t leave? Or –”   
  
“Yeah, they’re like sharks. But they’ll circle for you and won’t harass the kids _too_ much if they’re on their own, with somebody else. The paps are _almost_ soulless, but not quite. But if one of you is with the kids, then it’s fair game. I mean, any adult will get questions – like even your mom or friends or something – but you guys are the golden geese. They’re going to want to provoke you into saying something, anything, into going off message. But we haven’t even figured out what the message _is_ yet, so don’t talk to anyone.”   
  
“Erika –”   
  
“You need to trust me. OK, Ryan?”   
  
“OK.”   
  
“Get – I don’t know. Get your mother to drive down or on the next plane there or whatever it takes and have her stay with the kids. We can get them a nice hotel suite downtown.”   
  
Having to leave home for a place they’ve never even seen without him _or_ Michael is way too much for the twins to handle. He can’t fucking do that to them. “No I – I have a better idea. I rented a place – a house – a while back and I still have the lease. The kids know the place – they don’t love it, but it’s better than someplace new.”   
  
He can _hear_ her eyes narrow. (It’s An Erika Thing.) “OK. Get me the address. So your mom – or maybe someone else from your family – somebody a little less recognizable – somebody who’s not going to crack under the strain, maybe your dad?”   
  
“No – no, I trust my mom.” (She’s come a long way since the “he goes on a lot of one-night stands” fiasco.) “Just – she’s not home now, she’ll have to fly in, can you get like, security so they don’t get near her, can’t make her say anything? Like, get somebody to meet her at the airport.” He stops, worrying because she’s not, like, cruising the Caribbean, maybe she can’t, but – “She’ll come. She has to.”   
  
And she will. She’s staying with Devon and starts to say something about how she _can’t_ leave when Ryan first asks, they need her to stay, but when he says, “Mom, _I_ need you, _please_ ,” she seems to hear what he’s not saying. It might be the way his voice cracks at the end of the sentence, the desperation he’s barely keeping in check.   
  
(Despite his success and the fame and fortune that come with it, he’s never felt _entitled_ to his mom’s love and time and attention. He doesn’t ask for much because he knows he’s already been _given_ so much – by her, by his dad, by their whole family – that it would be so fucking selfish to ask for more.)   
  
If he’s asking, it’s serious and she knows it and her answer changes immediately. “Of course, honey, I’ll be there right away. But what’s the matter, Ryan, can’t you –”   
  
“No, Mom – it’s – there’s a story that’s come out about me, about _us_ , and it’s bad and it’s going to do a lot of damage and Erika doesn’t want me talking about it until we come up with a game plan, especially not on the phone. OK? Just – _please_ help me.”   
  
He pulls his laptop off the bedside table, buys a first-class ticket on the first flight he can find her. It’ll go straight to her e-mail; she’ll be here later that day if all goes well.   
  
“Oh – always, baby. Don’t even –”   
  
“Thanks, Ma. You should get the ticket soon.”   
  
“Got it. I’m already packing. I’ll see you soon. I love you.”   
  
“Love you too, Mom.” He really, really does.   
  
Ryan’s full of nervous energy and has so much to do, but can’t get it together to _do it_. He’s terrified to leave his bed, leave his room. (The _guest_ room.) It’s safe. He knows it’s a false sense of security, but he can’t help himself. Then he thinks of Ollie and Lo, thinks of what a couple extra minutes procrastinating could mean for them and makes himself get up and make the bed. Brush his teeth, wash his face. A 5-minute shower, to see if the hot water calms him down, helps him, like, _think_.   
  
Then he walks down the hall and knocks on Michael’s door. He answers right away, says “come in.” Of _all the things_ to make him set foot back in this room ( _their_ room) –   
  
Once he’s inside, he hovers near the foot of the bed, not touching anything, not looking at anything but Michael’s face.   
  
Michael’s sitting up, tense even while half-asleep, blankets a mess around his legs. “What’s the matter? Lo? _Ollie_?” (Ryan wonders, absurdly, if they’ll always have that slightly more worried note in their voices when talking about Ollie.)   
  
Ryan shakes his head, still hovering and looking down at the bed, hands clasped in front of him, not knowing how to break the news.   
  
Michael obviously mistakes the meaning of the glance and says, “I – it’s not – this is new. I got rid of the old one.” Not that Ryan hasn’t wondered – of course he has – but it’s both so relevant and irrelevant just now that he wonders whether somebody up there is writing his life and whether they think the story they’re telling is, like, _funny_ or some shit.   
  
(He doesn’t. It sure as _hell_ isn’t.)   
  
“It’s – it’s out, Michael.”   
  
“ _It’s_ out? What’s out?”   
  
“You know, that you – your, your affair, I guess.”   
  
Michael goes chalk-white, eyes wide. “I – _how_?”   
  
“I have no idea – I haven’t – I haven’t even seen the story.”   
  
Michael’s so freaked out Ryan can _taste_ it in the air between them. _He_ should be freaking out. “Then how –”   
  
“Erika called. It’s on TMZ. She didn’t want to talk about it over the phone – I guess phone taps or whatever – but that’s gotta be it. She wouldn’t be telling me that we,” he gestures between them, “shouldn’t leave the house but that we should get the kids out of here ASAP, that I should have _my mom_ come, that we should get them out of the house, that the paps are gonna start fucking _camping out_ – I mean, what else could it be, man?”   
  
“Maybe, maybe it’s something –”   
  
“It’s _big_. This is like full-blown crisis mode: she was getting in a car to try and catch a _plane_ when she called me. It was 6 AM on the dot, Michael.”   
  
“I’m just – I’m going to go online, make sure, see –”   
  
“Suit yourself. I’m going to get everything going.”   
  
Next he calls his friends and it’s Conor who can come get the kids and stay with them at the rental until his mother gets here. He packs some things and picks an outfit for each of the kids before waking them.   
  
He gives Ollie and Lo the briefest possible explanation as he hustles them out of their pajamas, into and out of the bath and into clean clothes: some people have said some not-very-nice things about Michael and him. (He doesn’t address the truth of what they’re probably saying which – considering he hasn’t seen the article in question – is probably for the best, though it’s not like he would’ve told their **_five_** year olds _Dad cheated on me with some mom from your school because I was selfish and decided to go for one more Olympics without mentioning it first_ anyway.) There’s going to be lots of not-very-nice people who will want to take pictures of them and ask them questions and _because_ they aren’t very nice, they don’t want these people near Ollie and Lo, so they’re going to stay with Grandma Ike at his old house, where they stayed with him on the weekends before, until all the not-very-nice people leave them alone. And Conor is going to take them there and stay until Grandma Ike comes.    
  
Thankfully, the kids, despite being confused and worried, are still somehow half-asleep and likely to zonk out in Conor’s car again. (Conor and his mom will have a harder time with them later.) When he half-carries first Ollie, then Lo, into the kitchen, Michael’s there, too, ashen-faced, eyes glassy. He’s got food on the table waiting for them, kisses both their foreheads once they’re in their seats.   
  
The kids haven’t eaten much by the time Conor gets there, so Ryan starts putting everything he can think of in grocery bags so they’ll have _something_ to eat later when they actually are hungry, lets Conor take it all out to the car along with the kids’ bags. (Erika had been _dead set_ on them not setting foot outside. Even if it seems stupid, considering no one’s out there just yet, he’ll take her at her word. He’s never had to weather _this_ kind of scandal before.)   
  
Finally, they can’t put it off any longer; it’s been hours since Erika called and it won’t be much longer till the sharks get here. While Ollie is obviously unhappy (he clings a little – unusual for him but no surprise in these circumstances), he’s somehow mostly still quiet, but Lo seems to really wake up and get upset halfway through their goodbyes as they’re moving towards the door. She goes from sniffling to full-out crying in the blink of an eye and it makes Ryan want to go out to the car with them, go with them or keep them _here_ , fuck the press, but he knows it’ll be worse for them in the long run.   
  
Ryan tries to shake the thought of having them stay as he lifts Ollie into a hug and holds him tight one last time. Ollie doesn’t cry, but burrows his head into Ryan’s neck, his shoulders shaking a little at Ryan’s “Love you, lil bro.” His fingers dig a little tighter when Ryan sets him down, but he finally lets go.

Ryan has to clamp his mouth shut not to ask Conor to bring him along as he watches Michael try to comfort Lo, stroking her hair even as she sobs and beats her small fists against his back – just like she did when she was a toddler facing the worst thing in the world: a nap. (If they couldn’t already tell how upset she is, they would know from the fact that she doesn’t grumble that Michael’s messing up her hair.) Finally, Michael has no choice but to let her go.  
  
Lo’s not having it; red-faced, she glares at her father before running straight back to Ryan, who can’t make himself do anything but kneel down to hug her again. It’s obvious that even after months of him being the stricter dad, she remembers that when it comes down to it, Daddy’s the one who has little defense against those blue doe eyes.   
  
(Least of all when they’re filled with tears.)  
  
When Ryan struggles to pry Lo off him (it kills him to do it; she’s quieted down, but still crying “I don’t wanna go, please, Daddy”), it’s Ollie who squares his skinny shoulders after his own second goodbye with Michael and convinces Lo to go out to the car, tugging insistently on her hand: “ _Lo_ , we have to go, ‘cause the mean people –”   
  
Ryan’s torn between pride at Ollie’s protectiveness and sadness that it’s necessary, the lump in his throat growing as he ruffles Ollie’s hair, getting even bigger as he sees the brave face Ollie put on for his sister falter when she’s not looking. (If he hugs Ollie one last time after that, who could blame him?)  
  
Conor, who's avoided looking at them and has pretty much been trying to disappear into the walls so as not to intrude the entire time they’ve been saying their goodbyes, has obviously realized they’ll never leave if it’s up to the four of them. He takes a deep breath and quietly says, “We really do need to go. C’mon guys,” holding out a hand to each twin.  
  
“I’ll call you later, OK? Ryan adds encouragingly, ushering the twins toward Conor until they each hesitantly put a hand in his.   
  
“Promise?   
  
“ _Pinky_ promise, princess.” Ollie still looks uncertain, so he continues, “And I’m not gonna let down my best bro.”  
  
“Dad too?”  
  
“Of course,” Michael tells the twins, with a nod both of them bravely return.  
  
Finally, finally, they let Conor lead them out the door.   
  
\---  
  
As they walk down to the driveway, Ryan calls from the doorway, “Be good!”  
  
“We love you!” are Michael’s last words to their children.  
  
(There’s nothing Ryan can to add to _that_.)  
  
When he finally closes the door after the kids, he can’t (really _can’t_ ) look at Michael. Instead, he watches the kids out the window as Conor buckles them in and eventually starts pulling the car out. Even from that distance, Ryan can see Lo swiping stubbornly at her eyes with one small hand and reaching across the backseat to squeeze Ollie’s hand with the other, her face taking on an expression that reminds Ryan eerily of his mother in moments of crisis.   
  
It takes him back years to when Poppy passed away, to when Mom and Dad got divorced.   
  
The thought that his children have to cope with that kind of pain so young is too much.   
  
It doesn’t leave room for any other thoughts just then, even with everything Ryan knows will be coming his way soon enough. **  
**

 

  



	19. Crisis Mode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Whatever you say doesn’t leave this room – which is why I came alone – but you need to tell me truth, the whole truth, so we can spin it and fix it as much as we possibly can, so we can limit the damage.”

 

By the time Erika gets to their house (alone – again, crisis mode; no one else will come in until she’s assessed the situation), there are a couple of guys outside, trying to act casual, waiting around as close as they can get without trespassing. (That freaks Ryan out, because he secretly thought Erika was exaggerating about paparazzi coming; she tends to, with stuff like that. She’s all about _better safe than sorry_. But they _are_ outside. It’s only, like, two, but this is their house – they’ve never had a single media guy stake them out _here_.) But Erika acts like they’re not there, like she’s just stopping by for a visit, ignoring it all with the poise of an expert – the poise that Ryan, her client, the actual _celebrity_ (it feels weird and arrogant to think that, but there’s not a better word), has yet to master, even after all these years.   
  
Shutting the door behind her, she takes in their disheveled, haggard appearances, but doesn’t speak until the three of them have filed into the kitchen and they’ve all sat down – Erika at the island, Ryan and Michael at opposite ends of the table – in total silence. “It’s true, isn’t it?” she finally asks.  
  
“Erika –”  
  
“Do not lie to me. Either of you. This is not the time,” she says firmly as Michael stands up, makes a noise of protest on his way to the counter. “Whatever you say doesn’t leave this room – which is why I came alone – but you need to tell me truth, the whole truth, so we can spin it and fix it as much as we possibly can, so we can limit the damage. So that if there’s information we can keep private, we keep it private. We don’t allow more leaks. So tell me, is it true?”  
  
“I guess so –”  
  
“What do you _mean_ , you guess so? You two look like the living dead, Ryan, do you take me for an –”  
  
“I just mean I don’t know the details –”  
  
“Of what hap – allegedly happened?”  
  
He knows _too much_ about what happened. (Considering he saw it with his own eyes. Not that he’s about to say that to Erika.) “Of the article. I haven’t looked at it.”   
  
“You haven’t l – are you serious right now?”  
  
“Anyway, I know what happened.”  
  
“You –”  
  
“It’s true,” Michael cuts in, looking anywhere but at Erika. “I mean, you know they don’t have a lot of information, but what they have is true.”  
  
“God knows I’m not here to scold anybody, it’s not my job, but it’s not _my_ eyes you should be avoiding, Michael,” Erika snipes, as though Michael hadn’t spoken.  
  
“I mean, I’m pretty sure I want to avoid everyone’s eyes _ever_ for as long as possible, thanks very –” Michael snaps, turning his back on her to pour himself a cup of coffee. A cup he’s pouring an awful lot of cream and sugar into. That’s not really –  
  
“Man, that’s –” Ryan starts on a warning despite himself – force of habit at this point– when Michael passes the coffee to him instead. He should’ve known; Michael’s never taken his coffee like this. He kind of wants to hand it back, but why start something over nothing when they’re already in the middle of a shitstorm? He doesn’t have the energy for it.  
  
Erika dials down then, taking Michael’s (entirely provoked) mood change in stride and replying matter-of-factly, “Well you can’t. If more information gets out, you may very well have to make a very public apology.”  
  
Ryan cuts in then, “Erika, you can’t be serious, this isn’t people’s business, it’s _our_ business. And anyway, isn’t it me and _my_ image you’re supposed to worry about, not Michael’s?” He hates just the thought of having to accept that kind of apology – how fucking embarrassing. (Because just this by itself _isn’t_ , he thinks sarcastically.) “Like, what, he apologizes during some stupid press conference, then buys me, like, a fucking purple diamond grill or some shit?”  
  
“No – I don’t know – well, the bottom line is that if it looks like you took him back – I mean, you’re still here and so is he – without making him work for it, it hurts _your_ image, too. I know it was a long time ago, but remember how much flack Hillary Clinton got for standing by her man?” Erika answers.  
  
“And then she became a senator and Secretary of State. Sucks to be her,” Michael retorts, even as he hands Erika her own coffee (black) and the little box of different artificial sweeteners they keep for guests. (Ryan knows she’ll put a Splenda in it – he’s heard her give people her drink order so many times over the years that even he knows it by heart.) Seriously? _Seriously_? Hillary Clinton’s career? _That’s_ what he wants to talk about right now?  
  
Erika’s clearly having similar thoughts. “So that was your master plan, Michael? Set Ryan up for political office by stepping out on him?” she throws back with equal sarcasm. She – fuck _._ Right now Ryan really _can’t_ – but this is a little too much even for – But all he can do is just look at Erika, whose eyes flash with each word out of her mouth. “It was an act of altruism! Points for most creative _I-cheated-because_.”   
  
He’s beginning to think he ought to do something when Erika claps a hand over her mouth a split second later and shakes her head, taking a deep breath. “Sorry – that – that wasn’t professional of me. I’ve been getting carried away – since I got here pretty much. I apologize. It’s not my place to cast judgment, it’s just that when you work with somebody for so long, it – it gets personal.” She focuses on stirring her drink as she speaks. “It upsets me that this would happen to you, but we can’t dwell on that. We need to focus on controlling the damage.” She’s back to PR speak.  
  
“Istanbul,” Ryan mutters. It just slips out, now that Erika’s not biting Michael’s head off.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You gave him points for most creative _I-cheated-because_. But it’s not creative. The answer is Istanbul.” He has nothing else to add, so he takes a sip of his coffee.  
  
Erika’s eyebrows go way up, but she doesn’t reply. She looks at Michael. “OK then. So the information they have, it’s accurate, Michael?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Thankfully, as of right now, it seems like that’s all they have, or else they would’ve gone for broke, considering how they decided to completely blindside us. They know the score; they know how things are done in this business, so I have no idea why they didn’t give me some warning. _Assholes_.” She turns a little pink at that. Probably because she’s not big on that sort of language.  
  
“Maybe . . . because they know we weren’t going to try and get out ahead of it because if what they posted is actually all they have, it’s thin, thank God.”  
  
Erika gives Michael a vaguely impressed look. “Exactly, they might’ve done a little digging once they had the original tip, didn’t come up with much and figured they might as well drop the story. Maybe it’ll draw somebody with more info out of the woodwork to them, give them a bigger scoop. But still . . .”  
  
“They figured we wouldn’t match it because they’ve got so little information – but honestly, I would’ve. Whatever they wanted because – ”  
  
“And what information _do_ they have?” Ryan interrupts, feeling ten steps behind and wishing for the first time he’d read the fucking article.  
  
“It’s all un-sourced allegations, you know, the usual. I mean sometimes they wait to drop ‘evidence’ to draw out the suspense – photos and that sort of thing. As of right now, there are no pictures and no information about the woman.”    
  
Why doesn’t she answer the fucking question? “That’s not what I asked.”  
  
“Allegedly, Michael had an affair with a woman who was seen entering and exiting your home several mornings a week for several weeks this past summer. Also –”   
  
He hasn’t heard a word Erika said after _several weeks this past summer_. “How long?”  
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“That question was for Michael, Erika. How long did that go on this summer? Obviously I know _exactly_ when it ended, but when did it start?”  
  
“How do you know when it ended?” Erika wonders out loud. She looks surprised by her own question, but then she seems to put two and two together (but hopefully, _please God_ , not correctly), eyes going wide and sad.   
  
But he ignores her. He’s still focused at Michael. “You never said when it started.”  
  
Michael won’t look at him, but starts talking. “Elizabeth flew home to see her family for a week” (that was in June) “so I, um, was dropping all the kids off at camp that first week and she was, uh, dropping her daughter off at the same time and we just, uh, started talking. She, ah – she didn’t really know anyone and we went and got tea and –” Michael pauses uncomfortably, fingers twitching convulsively around his empty coffee cup. He’s looking into it like it holds all the answers to his – their – problems.   
  
(Seriously, tea? Michael doesn’t do _tea_. He _really_ must have wanted to tap that.   
  
Ryan shudders at the thought.  
  
He tries to focus on that feeling rather than any of his _other_ thoughts.)  
  
Ryan can tell Erika is tempted to finish Michael’s sentence with something like, “And then your clothes somehow came off and your dick _accidentally_ wound up in her vagina.” (If he’s honest with himself, he’s halfway there.) Even though she (often) drives Ryan crazy, it’s obvious she really has come to care about him over the years. But despite some downright shitty strategic decisions right after London and her earlier outburst aside, Erika’s a professional and holds her peace.  
  
“The rest is history,” Ryan really (really) doesn’t want to continue this part of the conversation. The things he might ask are things he’s not going to ask in front of Erika, things she doesn’t need to know to do her job.   
  
Michael nods, now staring straight at the wall.  
  
Erika jolts them back to the present. “So does anyone else know about this?”  
  
“Besides Michael’s sl – besides his m – besides _the woman_ in question, I don’t think so. I never said anything to anybody.” It’s not like he _wanted_ to. Who wants people knowing something like this?   
  
Of course, now _everybody_ knows.  
  
“Nobody knows.”   
  
Nobody knew, Mikey, nobody _knew_ , Ryan thinks to himself, gripping the table.  
  
“Are you sure?” Erika insists.  
  
“The – the worst anybody could have seen was me grabbing a bite with her and picking up the tab and – uh, considering my net worth, it stands to reason I’d, you know, do that with most –”  
  
(Like seriously, who the fuck cares about your fucking _net worth_ right now, Michael?)  
  
Erika is obviously trying really hard not to roll her eyes just then. “OK, hate to break it to you, but if you were out in public with her, it’s not unlikely you’ll get found out properly– even if you weren’t making out like teenagers in the park, if somebody got a sufficiently questionable-looking picture, then we’re dealing with a whole different situation. Maybe eventually enough that they won’t have to say ‘alleged’ and ‘allegedly’ anymore.”  
  
This can’t be happening.   
  
“I mean, I’m guessing whoever actually submitted the original tip didn’t have something solid, because they would’ve tried somebody bigger. Still . . . The print tabs won’t touch this for now, but if somebody comes up with proof of some kind, you can bet they will.”   
  
_This cannot be happening._  
  
Michael’s not listening. “No touching in public, ever. So –”   
  
Christ, it doesn’t _matter_ anymore, it’s all – “Just in our house, in our bed. Really thoughtful of you,” Ryan blurts out before he can help himself. He knows what he promised, but it’s hard to keep that promise when the things you agreed not to talk about anymore, the things you agreed to try to move past, are getting dragged out _in public_ , when his life is falling apart before his very eyes and he can’t do anything to stop it from happening.  
  
“ _Jesus_ ,” Erika exclaims. “I – _Ryan_ , I’m so –” This whole situation is really getting to her; she’s not acting like herself at all. She’s never been the super-emotional type.  
  
Erika means well, he knows she does, but he hates pity, so he’s not about to let her get started. “Thanks, Erika, but let’s just – not. It’s the most fucking clichéd affair of all time, but let’s – Let’s just do this. Please.”  
  
Erika clearly needs a minute to get back to her mental bullet points and checklist.    
  
“Do you think she talked?” The question is obviously directed at Michael.  
  
“I – no.”  
  
“Are you sure?”   
  
“She’s – she’s married, has a daughter.”   
  
“Her daughter goes to the kids’ school, actually, the principal introduced her to us – well, me because obviously Michael already knew her,” Ryan adds (un)helpfully.  
  
Erika pinches the bridge of her nose and says nothing.  
  
“She’s an academic,” Michael continues. “And –”  
  
“Reputation _is_ important for that,” she says finally. “Well not for the men so much, some of them sleep with their students, but definitely for women. And TMZ wouldn’t offer enough to set her up for life –”  
  
“I mean, if she wanted money, she could’ve gotten a lot more from me than TMZ.”   
  
Ryan gives him a disbelieving look. Is he fucking _serious_ right now, talking about how he’d give his fucking slampiece –   
  
Michael seems to read his mind without even looking at him. “I would’ve done _anything_ to stop this coming out.” He pauses. “But . . . she wouldn’t need it anyway – her husband’s a big shot at Barclays. Not exactly . . . rolling in it, like, you know, us, but TMZ’s money isn’t likely to turn her head. She’d probably get more in a divorce settlement even, and God knows publicizing . . . an affair wouldn’t help with that. Anyway, if he – Jack – found out, he’d leave her and try to get custody of Ella and that’s the last thing –”  
  
Michael seems to know an awful lot about what would happen if Mary divorced her husband Jack, about what Jack would do if he found out his wife was sleeping with another man, and about what that would mean for their daughter Ella.   
  
Did it ever cross Michael’s mind to think what _he_ might do, that _he_ might leave _him_? Did Michael consider the kind of settlement _he_ could get if _they_ divorced? (Even after all these years he’s been raking in sponsorships, Michael’s still got much more in the bank.)  More importantly, did it ever cross Michael’s mind that _he_ might make a play for full custody of _their_ kids if _they_ split up?   
  
And if it did, did Michael even care?   
  
It makes Ryan want to yell, scream, _What about us? What about_ our _family?_ But he needs to get through this and that’ll just tip him over the edge. He bites his lip, clenches his hands so tight to stop himself that he knows without looking his teeth and nails are drawing blood.   
  
“Just – she’s got as much to lose as I do,” Michael finishes.  
  
Erika looks a little skeptical. “She’s not one half of America’s most famous Olympic couple.”   
  
“My family’s more important than my reputation,” Michael counters.  
  
After a beat, Erika finally nods, biting her lip (and probably her tongue) as she concedes the point and most likely resists the urge to say _you should’ve thought of that before_. Ryan definitely is. “Did you have contact with her after – after Ryan became aware of the – of the situation?”  
  
“No. It – I think she felt nearly as bad as I did that Ryan – um, that –”  
  
“That I saw?” Ryan finishes for him, feeling his hands sting as he pushes his chair back to stand up. Erika closes her eyes then. (She probably wants to disappear about as much as Conor did this morning.)  
  
“Yes,” Michael says, looking up at him for a split second before looking away again. “So it was – it was over. It was mutual.”  
  
“So –” Erika starts.  
  
“Anyway, if it was her or someone tied to her, someone she’d told – and I don’t think there was anyone – they could’ve given more specific information. Like, made it more, um, damaging, worth more money or whatever.”   
  
“The neighbors, maybe?”  
  
It’s weird to think that one of their _neighbors_ would talk, that they were living in a fucking snake’s nest. Who would’ve –  
  
“The Johnsons _just_ moved away,” Michael remembers out loud after a long pause. “I mean, they weren’t our biggest fans, but they didn’t –”  
  
“They don’t need to _hate_ you, they just need to want – or need – the money,” Erika reminds him, a little more gently than Ryan would think she’d speak to Michael right now. (He’s even more surprised that Michael needs it, after all the years he’s been A Big Fucking Deal.)   
  
“Yeah, it’s a big house, big mortgage payments – rumor has it they had to sell, that their finances were pretty screwed up –” Michael nods slowly, putting the pieces together.  
  
“It could be. It would make sense – maybe they didn’t think to back then because you’ve both been keeping a lower profile, but then they saw Ryan was being talked about a little more because of Short Course Worlds, people are looking at him a little more closely because something’s off – even if you wouldn’t tell me what except _it’s my family, Erika_. And _that_ started some rumblings about what had happened at the Golden Goggles right before that, how you two – well, you know.” Michael nods again, once, tersely, at that. “It doesn’t even have to be them – it could be anybody who saw her coming and going and saw an opportunity now.”  
  
Ryan feels his face warm up at the thought that he’d slipped, that people _could tell_ after all the effort he made to keep it together.   
  
(Erika checked in with him after his speech, saying it wasn’t his best effort, but OK except for the fact that he hadn’t mentioned Michael and that kind of thing always looks fishy. She started babbling about Jennifer and Chad and Hilary and Brad and some other people he couldn’t remember and how maybe they needed to attend another premiere or launch party or _something_ before his r – But she seemed to buy his explanation that he’d been so nervous about the news he’d been planning to break and so surprised at winning – he hadn’t expected to – that his speech wound up messy, _you know I suck at them, always have,_ and _doesn’t family include husband anyway_?)   
  
“I mean, if you’d given me a hint there was something this big just waiting to get out, I don’t know – maybe we wouldn’t all be blindsided now. I mean, that you separated, at least, that would’ve been something.”  
  
How did she – he never exactly _said_ – “How’d you know that?”  
  
“I mean, you told me this morning you rented a place, I wasn’t born yesterday, but even if I had been, it says in the article you moved out, Michael said what they had was true so –” She sighs. “I mean, Ryan, all I knew was Shawn said you changed your address. Except it was your same address now and that confused me, but there was other stuff going on and I didn’t question it, question _you_ enough. I should’ve but I didn’t and I’m sorry. Even if you’re the client, even if you’re therefore the boss, it’s _my_ job to look out for your best interests, even if you get mad at me –” (He has, more than once.) “And I dropped the ball.” She blows out a breath. “That’s neither here nor there, though. Back to how this gets out. So your names have been thrown about a bit more _very_ recently, there are hints that maybe something’s rotten in the state of Florida, so TMZ would actually be interested in a scoop on you, and these neighbors were moving anyway – assuming it was them – if the story comes out. That means, like I’ve been saying, that TMZ may not know _much_. There’s no photographic proof that we know of. If they figure out who she is and offer her money and it does – for whatever reason – turn her head, can _she_ give them anything? Pictures, e-mails, texts even, I don’t know –”  
  
“No. No pictures – unless, um, like you said, somebody else took them, no e-mails and we _never_ texted. I mean, a call history _maybe_ and even if she recorded conversations, which I really don’t think, nothing that would be, like, a dead giveaway, because I don’t really do voicemails, and I didn’t need to, we always just met up when the kids were at camp and –”  
  
“I wasn’t home.”  
  
“Yeah,” Michael confirms, eyes on the table.  
  
“Did she _always_ come here?”  
  
“Ry –”  
  
“Can you answer the question?” His eyes are boring into the back of Michael’s head and he tries his hardest not to dig his nails into his palms again.  
  
“Yes. I thought it was – more private here. Like, I’m famous, people would notice if I went to the same place most weekdays.”  
  
It sounds so cold, so _calculated_. Ryan can hear his blood rushing in his ears and sits down again, because that, of all things, is just too much.  
  
As soon as Ryan’s dropped into his chair, Michael stands up, eyes on Erika, who starts brainstorming out loud: “We might – we might get away with – well, I don’t think we can outright deny it because that always draws more attention and, well, more importantly, it’s _true_. Our best bet is probably that I not make myself available if they try reaching me and that Peter do the same. I mean, they already took it upon themselves to say your reps weren’t available for comment. We could also just issue a blanket no-comment. Well, whichever, that means not talking about it to _anyone_ , not even your families, because the more people know, the more likely somebody will crack. But you guys are _thisclose_ to cracking anyway, so –”  
  
“My mother needs to know,” Ryan interrupts tonelessly.   
  
He’s not sure whose “ _What?_ ” is louder.  
  
“I made her drop everything to fly to Gainesville. She was staying with my brother and – I have to tell her _why_ once she’s here.”  
  
“You can tell her that this story broke and that it’s messy and you need her help with the kids because the paps are going to make your lives really difficult – a living hell would be an understatement – until the next big scandal breaks.”  
  
“And anyway, like you said before, there’s the rental. I rented it, I still have the lease, I lived there over a month and the kids came to stay. _We separated_. And people – they, like, know about that – Conor and Elizabeth and Nathan and our families. Even if nobody knows why.”  
  
“And Lo’s ballet teacher,” Michael adds after a beat.  
  
“Lo’s ballet teacher? Are you kidding me?” Ryan snaps his head up then. Why _that_ makes him angry he has no idea. (He’s just all over the damn place today.)  
  
“She called me to talk about Lo, um, struggling with ballet and I told her she was having a hard time with things at home. She’s the one who recommended the therapist.”   
  
Michael breathes in and out, bending down with fingers tensed over the island. “But anyway, Erika, Ryan’s right. People do know we separated and the timing fits just right, it’s not hard to put two and two together with this out. And I mean, it’s right there in the article that he moved out. Yeah, it’s just ‘alleged’ like the rest of it, but there’s enough people that know that actually did happen even if they don’t know why. And even – if it _was_ the neighbors, well maybe they saw him leave with suitcases, or probably just noticed that his car wasn’t here, that _he_ wasn’t here for weeks. But now they’ll know this is why. And – and my mother knows.”  
  
“That you separated? You already said that, that your families and your fr–”  
  
“No, she knows what I did.”  
  
“Since when does your mother qualify as ‘no one’–”  
  
“You told Debbie?” Ryan’s furious. Forget telling the fucking ballet teacher they separated, Michael telling _Debbie_ what he did was just fucking inexcusable. And then trying to make him look crazy for wanting to tell his mom _now_. How fucking dare he.   
  
(God, Michael probably fucking _destroyed_ Debbie by telling her that. Poor Debbie thinks the sun rises and sets on her baby boy.   
  
And that it shines out of his ass.)  
  
Michael opens his mouth to speak. “I –”  
  
Erika ignores both Ryan’s outburst and Michael’s attempt to respond to it. “So back to the matter at hand: maybe a “we’re not dignifying this with a response” type no-comment, with a side of “please respect our family’s privacy.” Obviously, we’ll go over the options before we say anything – well, _if_ we say anything, because actually, you know, considering, maybe we don’t even need to. I mean, if they’ve got more on this, then we do, but in the meantime – we’ll consult with your people, too, Michael. So just – neither of you say anything until that’s hammered out because I don’t know – Honestly I’m surprised Peter hasn’t gotten in touch already. I mean, not to toot my own horn, but I _flew to Florida on a moment’s notice_. What are you paying _him_ for, exactly?” She shakes her head and pulls out her laptop. She’s already lifting it open when she pauses, “One more thing – I – I know you – you came back – but are you – are you staying together?”  
  
Ryan swallows nervously, a split second’s pause –  
  
“Yes,” they say at the same time.  
  
 _Jinx?_

 


	20. Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He just needs . . . out.

Hours and several conversations apiece later, they’re exhausted.

For Erika, there were calls with their PR team, calls to _Michael’s_ PR people – which mostly means Peter. During _that_ conversation (or the tail end of it, since that’s the only part he hears), she calls Peter the “most incompetent image consultant I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with” and hangs up on him, nearly cracking her phone on the coffee table.

(Ryan’s known Peter for years – was even represented by Octagon himself – and, to be perfectly honest, that doesn’t sound like Peter at all. He can’t help but wonder if Erika’s venting her anger on the people who work for Michael since she’s – finally – realized can’t actually let it loose on the man himself. It’s unprofessional.

Venting at a colleague is a whole different story.)

For Ryan, there were conversations with Conor and with his mother.

\---

Ryan isn’t ready to talk to the kids when he calls Conor (and feels like the worst fucking father in the world just thinking it); he only wants to check that they got to his place in one piece and are getting settled as best as they can. After taking Ryan’s call in another room so they don’t ask to speak to him, Conor tells him he set the kids up in front of the TV with a movie, hoping they nod off, but they’re wide awake. Conor is busying himself with some cleaning and tries to make Ryan laugh by telling him, “I’d be in such big trouble with Lizzie if she knew I was cleaning _your_ place. And by big trouble, I mean she’d make me clean ours for the rest of the _year_ ,” he adds dramatically. (Never mind it’s already December.) Ryan manages a weak chuckle at that. “But seriously, even when Ike gets here, you know you can count on us. Anything you need. Whenever, man.”

“You – I appreciate it. And Liz too. You have no idea –”

“Don’t mention it. That’s what friends are for, right? Just – don’t worry about anything here. I’ll hold down the fort, keep your little terrors in line and well-fed until Grandma gets here. And I’ll be in touch, let you know what’s up, all right?”

“Thanks man.”

\---

When Ryan calls his mother hours later, the kids are napping. She tells him that when she arrived they were cranky and exhausted, but couldn’t fall asleep because they were so worked up. (So _upset_ , probably. No doubt Mom is trying to spare his feelings with her overly careful mom wording.) But she managed to make it happen. When he asks how, she makes a sheepish noise and says nothing. (It’ll come in handy at some point – he can’t believe he’s worrying about ways to get the kids to fall asleep right now. For the first time in his life, he really thinks he can understand what ADHD is like, more than any time Michael’s tried to explain, wonders if he’s a case that was just waiting to happen.) Finally, Mom admits she put a shot of whiskey in the tea she made them. (It might be his imagination, but he’d swear she sounds less than thrilled that he _had_ whiskey around in the first place, even if it came in handy.)

“Really that was all I needed to do. Conor did almost everything before I got here. The food you sent was put away, the kids’ things were unpacked, they’d had lunch and he had a snack all ready for them for whenever they got hungry again” is her update.

“Wow. Yeah, he’s, um, he’s been really great – I mean, he was cleaning when we talked. Place was probably covered in dust when they got there. I, uh, haven’t been back since I moved back.”

“Well I’m grateful. He’s good people. A good friend. I’m glad you have people like him around,” Mom says softly.

“Me too.” If he didn’t – God, he wouldn’t think this situation could get worse, but it totally _could_.

“Especially now, with –” Mom continues.

“Mom –” he interrupts.

She changes mid-sentence from statement to question. “Is it true, honey?” She sounds sad but . . . maybe a little bit hopeful. _Fuck._

Fuck Michael. And Erika too, even if she’s trying to help. “I – yes. Yeah, Mom, it, uh, it is.”

The silence on the other end goes on _forever_ until she whispers, “Oh _Ryan_. Sweetie, I’m so –”

“Can we not, Mom? Please? Not right now.”

“I –”

“ _Please_ ,” he pleads. He just . . . _can’t_.

She gives in, thank God. “All right, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He takes a deep breath, takes off his glasses to clean them with the bottom of his shirt. “So . . . you got my e-mail, right? With the kids’ schedules and the phone numbers and addresses for the different places and teachers and stuff. And the pediatrician. And Conor and Elizabeth. Nathan too.”

(Typing all that out made him miss Kyle – not that Mom would need him to be on the list; she’s had his number forever – so much it _hurt_. It confused the hell out of him; because yeah, Kyle’s his oldest friend and he does miss him, but there’s texting and COD and it’s not like they never see each other, so thinking of him normally doesn’t mean feeling like he’s missing a limb.)

“And all their stuff – swimming and Cub Scouts and Daisies and ballet and the therapist.” He spent as much time as possible on it before Erika arrived – trying to keep the kids’ lives running as normally as they could despite this mess so as not to think about how _his_ life was falling apart and how there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“The therapist? They’re _five_ ,” his mother asks disbelievingly.

“Yeah, but you know all the sh – cr – stuff they’ve had to deal with lately?”

Mom sighs. “OK. So you’re mentioning all these different things, but what about school?”

“Have you actually _read_ it?” He sighs, annoyed with himself for acting annoyed with his mother. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s probably been too busy _taking care of his children_ to bother with his e-mail about them. “School’s there, too, Ma.”

“But it’s one of a million things. Their lives are so _regimented_. I didn’t raise you like –”

He resists the temptation to roll his eyes, even if she can’t see him. (Somehow, she’d still _know_.) Yeah, he had free time growing up, but he spent most of his time outside of school doing organized sports, so she really doesn’t have a leg to stand on with that one. She just wasn’t _pushy_ about it. “Yeah, they do stuff. They have to hang out with other kids. But we don’t _make_ them do any of that stuff. Just if they’re, like, interested, they want to, we let ‘em try it. We’ve got the money and the time and everything.”

“You haven’t always had the time, when –”

 _That_ was part of the problem – “But I do now. And they're not gonna wanna do all of it forever.”

“What if they do?”

“Then they do, Mom,” he sighs. In her own way, Mom is just as interfering as Debbie and really, this isn’t the time. The last thing he needs right now is his mother questioning his parenting, too. Michael’s done enough of that to last him a lifetime, so he barrels on. “Anyway, it’s all there – everything, days and times and places, through Christmas break.”

“You think they won’t be able to come home before that?” she asks sadly.

“You think I _know_ , Mom? I have no clue.” Ryan pinches the bridge of his nose after that, even more annoyed with himself. If he pushes his mom away by acting like an ungrateful jerk, who’s going to be left in his corner? “I know you have a life and stuff you’d rather be doing and Dev’s probably piss – mad at me and I’m _sorry_ –”

“I didn’t mean – don’t apologize. Not to me. I’m your mother and you need my help. All I care about is helping you through this. I don’t want you to worry at all, OK?” She sounds even sadder.

God, he hates that he’s had to drag her into his mess.

“But –”

“Your brother will understand.”

(No he _won’t_. How can he?

When the twins came early, Devon was the first person at the hospital – there before they’d even been delivered. Devon sat with him in the hospital chapel while Kyle – the second person to get there – handled calling Mom and Debbie and everyone else because his hands were shaking too badly to handle his phone and Michael had admitted he’d lose it completely if he had to talk to his mother or his sisters just then and he just _couldn’t_. Neither of them could. But they both needed to keep it together.

Devon let him cry into his shoulder when he thought he’d choke on his own fear, rubbed his back, whispered _They’ll be fine, Ry, it’s all gonna be fine, Poppy’s watching over them, he won’t let anything bad happen, I promise, bro. In a little while we’re gonna count fingers and toes and me and Kyle and are gonna laugh at you guys ‘cause you’ll cry and say it’s the roof leaking. And later you’re gonna fight over whether they’re gonna wear normal baby clothes or whatever crazy blinged-out neon shit you tell Mom to bring from your stash when she gets here._

Devon knew when to walk away and give him and Michael some privacy.

Devon was the one to snap the first picture of Michael and him with the twins once everything was OK. He visited every day until Ollie and Lo came home from the hospital, helped Mom and Debbie and their sisters get everything ready at home for their arrival. He was the first person to hold each of the twins other than their dads – fair was fair, no matter what the grandmas said.

Until then, it had always been Ryan that took care of Devon, Ryan that was strong for Devon. For the first time – the most important time of all – Devon stepped up for _him_ , was there for him, was strong for him when he most needed it, been more responsible than any of them thought he could be.

And Ryan – well, Devon became a dad a week and a half ago and Ryan had yet to meet his daughter.

To be fair, the day Gianna was born was the first day of the worst stomach flu of Ryan’s life. He was sick for a full three days and woke up better on Saturday, but it was better to be safe than sorry with a newborn, not to mention the kids had school on Monday. So he’d said, _Sorry, Dev, we’ll be there next weekend_. Then he realized Erika had scheduled his retirement announcement at the beginning of the week and that, just to be safe, they shouldn’t head out of town so close to it, so it had to be the weekend after. He had to call back and say, _It’ll be better if we see you guys without having to rush back, without that, you know, in the way, bro._

Now God knows if he’ll be able to see her.

And on top of not going to see his niece, he’s dragged his mother away from her and from Devon to come to Gainesville to help him and _his_ kids because his husband couldn’t keep it in his fucking pants.

There’s no way Devon can understand _that_.)

“He wasn’t exactly . . . thrilled when I left,” Mom hedges. “I mean, you know, I couldn’t really explain – But now – The only thing he’ll be grumbling is _why can’t I come and beat the daylights out of that asshole, Mom?_ ”

“Mom –” Ryan protests.

“You know I wouldn’t let him,” she reassures him before adding, “For my grandchildren. But if I only had you to think about, I’d be helping him.”

It’s definitely the most violent thing she’s probably ever _thought_ , let alone said. That tells him just how upset she is. But still – “ _Mom!_ ”

She takes a deep breath. “Well, anyway, don’t worry about the kids. We’ll be fine over here.”

“How can I not, Mom?” He won’t be able to _stop_.

“I’ve raised five children. Some of you better than others, but you all turned out all right in the end. Still . . . truer words and all that. You remember what I told you, when you told me you t – you wanted to have kids?”

“Not the exact words, but –”

“I read that years and years ago, but I’ll never forget it. Word for word. Having children is _to decide forever to_ _have your heart go walking around outside your body_ ,” she quotes, with more than a little emotion.

It’s right on the money. He hadn’t understood how much until he’d seen the twins for the first time. “How’d you do it? Mom, I –”

“How _do_ I do it, you mean. What I just told you is exactly true – it’s _forever_. Not _until your child graduates from college_ or _until your child wins a gold medal_ or even _until your child gets married and has children of his own_.”

“I don’t know how – it’s – it’s so . . . _hard_ right now. This morning – it was awful. I couldn’t – Lo was crying and Ollie was trying so hard to be brave for her and um, it just – I just wanted to hang onto them or go with them or –”

“I can’t blame you for wanting to leave,” she mutters.

“I wasn’t talking about –”

“Still, Ryan –” she interrupts.

Really, is she gonna – “I know, but I said –”

“Fine. You did, I’m sorry, honey, but it’s not easy for me not to be upset! You’re my son and I love you and you’ve been hurt and all any mother wants to do is protect her child. And, you know, make the person who hurt you regret it.” She sighs. “I just – I hoped when I talked to you, you’d tell me it wasn’t true, it was made up, since you know, sometimes the stuff in the tabloids is just trash, but I know that doesn’t mean it isn’t a problem and you don’t have to deal with it properly. I hoped that was it, for you, for the kids, for him, too, for everyone –” He’s lost count of the number of deep breaths his mother’s taken since they started talking. “I can’t – I don’t know how . . . I never – I _never_ would’ve expected this, I never thought you separated because of something like _this_ and I’m so – I’m not just angry – _furious_ – he could do that to you – and Ollie and Lo! – I’m disappointed. I’m so disappointed.” Her voice takes on that _I’m going to cry_ quality that always hurts – whether it’s the good way when she’s proud of him or the bad way when she’s upset. “But I don’t want to make things more difficult for you. What you’re going through, you’ve got so much on your plate right now. But I want you to just – just know you can talk to me whenever, about whatever, even if it’s the middle of the night, no matter what, OK?”

“OK,” Ryan agrees, even as he knows he won’t take her up on it. “I – I know you will but – please take of them, Mom.”

“Of course, baby.”

“Promise me,” he insists.

She sounds worried then, “What’s the matter, I just t –”

“I just need you to. I need to know that they’ll – please.” They’re the most – no matter what happens next, they need to come out of this whole thing OK.

“I promise, of course I do – you know I will.”

He takes another deep breath himself, feeling something like relief for the first time all day. “Thanks Mom. I – I, um, I should go.”

“Wait –”

“I have to.” Really, he _needs_ to.

“I love you.”

“Me too. So much. You’re – you’re the best, Mom.” For some reason, he feels the need to say it right out, too. Just – “I love you.”

After that, Ryan ignores every other call and voicemail and e-mail and text he gets and just tries not to think.

\---

 _I need – I need a fucking break. I need a bath_.

He just needs . . . _out_.

He looks into the kitchen, where Michael is sitting, staring into space, food untouched. “Um – Michael?”

He startles to attention. “Yeah?”

“The master bath – did you ever – with . . . her – I mean –”

“No. Never.” Michael shakes his head, looking him in the eye for maybe the second time that day.

At least there’s that.

\---

The master bath is custom-made. It’s beautiful. It’s a fucking _masterpiece_.

Contrary to popular belief, Ryan’s not an idiot. He can actually read and even reads for fun sometimes. (Shocking.) After reading about the prefect’s bathroom in one of the _Harry Potter_ books, he decided that if he ever got to pimp out his own house, he’d get a bathroom just like that.

Well, as close to it as you could get without magic.

(The master bedroom and bath are actually connected by an en-suite staircase, with the bedroom on the second floor of the house and the bath on the first so they could build what’s pretty much a small rectangular pool sunk into the ground for their tub.

The tub is deep and wide enough to float in – swim in, even – without your feet touching the bottom – even for someone his size. A bench – like the kind in a hot tub – juts out from one side.

They also have a more standard tub, plus a tricked-out shower because the in-ground tub – beauty though it is – is impractical on a day-to-day basis if you’re in a hurry. Anyway, the tubs are mostly for him; Michael is more of a shower person. The shower also gives – _gave_ – them the option of – _no_.

Not to mention using the in-ground tub during a drought would be a totally dick move.)

Other than the obvious, the tub is the thing Ryan’s missed most about his old room. He feels a little bit better just looking at it – which is good, because it takes _ages_ to fill. He sits by the side, putting everything he needs right by the edge: towel, soap, shampoo and conditioner, razor.

Then he concentrates on keeping his mind blank, focusing on the water rising before his eyes rather than the kind trying to escape from behind them. _In and out, in and out_.

Nice and easy. (He’ll have his break soon enough.)

Once the water level is deep enough, Ryan steps out of his sweatpants (an old, _really_ comfortable UF pair), strips off his white V-neck (the tissue-thin, worn-in-just-right kind Erika’s forbidden him to wear in public) and, suddenly impatient, yanks down his boxers, leaving everything in a messy pile on the floor. He inhales, taking a slow, deep breath before plunging in.

  



	21. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s hard to believe they were sitting around the dinner table laughing less than 24 hours ago.

 

It’s hard to believe they were sitting around the dinner table laughing less than 24 hours ago.  
  
\---  
  
It’s the first Friday since Lo and Ryan were bested by their stomach flu and the four of them are having their traditional Friday night dinner.  
  
When Michael calls the pizza place, he’s prepared to give their full order, given how long it’s been since they last ordered it, but the guy recognizes his voice and asks “for four, five or six?”   
  
(Before everything, most Fridays, it was just the four of them, but sometimes they babysat Charlie and most of those times they also had Evan come for dinner – unless the Dwyers had plans – since they were both coming back with them from Cub Scouts or camp anyway. It hardly seemed fair to leave Evan out just because his parents didn’t _need_ a babysitter.  
  
Every Friday, they’d pick up the boys at Cub Scouts, Lo at Daisies, and then dinner on the way home. If it was still light out and warm, but not too hot, they ate outside by the pool, inside during the worst of the heat and in the cooler months.)  
  
This time, however, the boys are going to be dropped off at their respective homes straightaway. (Nathan’s _still_ hesitant to ask Michael and Ryan to baby-sit. Michael’s pretty certain they’re his absolute last resort, where in the past they were probably the first people he’d call.) So he answers “Four.” (The only real difference when the answer is “five” or “six” is that their order includes pizza with the boys’ favorite toppings too, plus pizza sauce on the side.) The pizza guy recites their usual order exactly the same as always, complete with “and extra blue cheese and ranch on the side.”   
  
That’s entirely necessary in their house. Ryan and Lo’s preference is blue cheese for their wings and ranch for their pizza – Lo for her crusts and Ryan for at least one full slice (which will never _not_ be bizarre to Michael); Ollie likes a little of each dressing for his wings and crusts; Michael uses entirely too much ranch on just his wings.   
  
It’s pretty much the unhealthiest meal imaginable.   
  
(They don’t even have salad beforehand, much to Nathan’s dismay. He claims they’re a bad influence on Charlie, who is nearly impossible when it comes to salads.   
  
That’s pretty much the only evidence that the kid isn’t some perfect, very human-child-like alien.  
  
If he’s honest, Michael will admit it’s a little bit of a relief there’s at least some tiny area in the realm of parenting where Nathan comes up short.  
  
If he’s honest, he’ll admit that he and Ryan and Conor and Elizabeth frequently laugh their asses off over it.  
  
If he’s _completely_ honest, he’ll admit none of them feel the slightest bit guilty because Nathan’s never let them live down the fact that _his_ kid is the only one who took to swimming like a duck to water.)   
  
\---  
  
While Michael unpacks dinner, Ryan pulls their Christmas card off the fridge to show the twins. “Here it is, guys,” he announces grandly. “Dad did a good job, jeah?”  
  
Michael turns his head a little, feeling like he might actually be _blushing_ (dear God), to see Ollie nod enthusiastically. Lo jumps up from the table then, runs over to him at the counter and gestures for him to bend down – for a kiss on the cheek, as it turns out. “It’s _sooo_ nice, Dad.”  
  
“Thanks, Bean. You know, Daddy picked the pictures.”   
  
There’s one of Ollie grinning away on his new skateboard (that one was for Ike’s benefit), Lo looking quite determined mid-plié, the twins holding hands as they struggled to stay upright on their roller skates at Dalia’s birthday party, the four of them sitting outside on the deck – all smiles – during a Memorial Day barbecue at Whitney’s.   
  
\---  
  
Hilary snaps the photo on her iPhone, looks over the final product, and declares it “perfect” before walking off to show it to their mother and sister.   
  
The second Hilary walks away, Ollie scrambles up off the bench and yanks on one of Lo’s braids. (She’d elbowed him between photo attempts because he was teasing her about . . . something or other.) She retaliates by kicking him as he’s about to walk off, which results in him tripping over her outstretched foot, skinning his knees and scraping up his hands.     
  
“Owwwww!” Ollie hollers, still sitting on the ground, looking inordinately upset considering his scrapes are little worse than the ones he comes home from scouts with _and_ he technically started it. “You tripped me!” he snaps, glaring up at his sister.   
  
“You pulled my hair!”   
  
“You started it!”  
  
“Nuh uh, you were mean!” Lo retorts, glaring down at him equally fiercely before stalking off (Michael assumes) to get a cone from the ice cream truck with their cousins. (Taylor and Connor had gone running to Bob as soon as they’d heard the jingling music, who told the twins they could have ice cream as well – if it was all right with their dads – when they were done with their picture.)  
  
Lo nearly knocks into Ryan, who’s returning with the First Aid kit just then.  
  
“Hey, slow down, princess,” he chides gently.  
  
“Sorry, Daddy,” she says over her shoulder. That reminds him they’ll need to get an apology out of Lo when she gets back.   
  
But for now he busies himself tending to Ollie (no kissing it better, _that’s for_ girls, Ollie told them), who is sitting on the bench again, pouting until Taylor comes running, ice cream in hand, anxiously demanding, “What’s the matter? Did you hurt yourself?”  
  
“Uh-huh. Lo tripped me,” Ollie tells her sullenly, eying her ice cream.  
  
Ryan must see it, too because he asks, “You want some?”  
  
“Uh-huh. Strawberry.”  
  
“Got it, I –”  
  
“Wait, Uncle Ryan –”  
  
Taylor stops when she sees her father return with Connor and Lo, who’s holding two ice creams – one chocolate, one strawberry.   
  
“Sorry I kicked you,” Lo says abashedly.   
  
So much for needing to prompt an apology. Sometimes the twins surprise him in the best ways.  
  
That’s it. Ollie can never stay mad at his sister for long (and even if he could, there’s a strawberry ice cream cone on the line), so all he says is “‘s OK. Sorry I pulled your hair.”  
  
“It’s OK,” Lo replies, sitting down next to him and kissing his cheek. “I’ll hold yours, too,” she offers, peering worriedly at Ollie’s hands before holding the strawberry ice cream out so he can take a bite.  
  
That ultimately makes for another photo op, but Michael and Ryan keep that picture for themselves.  
  
\---  
  
Naturally, Daddy gets a smacking kiss too when Lo settles back on his lap to look at their 2018 holiday card some more.   
  
Once the card’s been returned to its place of honor on the fridge and they sit down to eat, Ollie regales them with tales of his den’s indoor snowball fight, how he and Evan and Charlie were on the same side and were “the best ‘snowball’” (rolled-up sock) “throwers” in the whole den. (At the mention of being on the same side, Michael is grateful for small favors; there’s been more than one time where those two have had some difficulty understanding that they can’t both partner up with Ollie for activities that require pairing off.   
  
It’s not so bad when they’re all playing at the house, since Lo’s around and they’re not about to imply that they _wouldn’t_ want to play with her, too. Both boys have acquired some sense of self-preservation by now – Charlie a little more so than Evan, since he’s likelier to volunteer himself to pair up with Lo when necessary.  
  
Not to mention if one of them doesn’t, _Ollie_ would most likely take Lo’s side and leave them to each other, which is definitely _not_ the preferred outcome.)     
  
Ollie’s delight over the “snowballs” reminds Michael of the snow machine stashed away in their storage room, the one Ryan bought the first Christmas after they got married, the first time they hosted both their families for a holiday.  
  
\---  
  
The snow machine is meant as a peace offering of sorts for Mom, who – as much as she’s pleased to see them settled and happy – is less than thrilled about spending Christmas in sunny Florida.   
  
Admittedly, Baltimore _is_ more the sort of wintry location traditionally associated with the holiday, so Michael can see her point. But what are they supposed to do?   
  
The main reason they decided to host Christmas rather than Thanksgiving was that the longer holiday made a trek to Florida more worthwhile for Mom and the rest of his family, not to mention that the concept of not spending Christmas together was incomprehensible to either of their families. Both their mothers would’ve been in floods at just the thought.  
  
When she sees the “snow,” Mom laughs and cries and hugs Ryan so hard that he yelps when Michael touches him later that night, muttering _pretty sure Debbie broke one of my ribs. Or maybe it was Taylor and the piggy back ride._  
  
Michael just smirks and tells him he’s glad they didn’t break other things. “But let’s not talk about my mother or my niece anymore,” he adds, slowly drawing a hand down where he knows there’s no damage.  
  
After a little while, he traces the same path with his mouth.   
  
It takes no time at all for Ryan to forget his aches and pains.  
  
\---  
  
Michael shakes his head, trying to clear it of thoughts he shouldn’t even be _thinking_ at the dinner table with their kids. He makes a mental note to dig out the snow machine and tries to focus on Lo’s gushing over the rainbow cake Ryan had sent her off to the Daisies with and how “it was the yummiest.”   
  
But he’s too busy just _looking_ at the three most important people in his life to really pay attention to what’s being said, too busy drinking in the excitement in Lo’s eyes, the joy in Ollie’s and the warmth in Ryan’s and feeling warmed by it all in turn.   
  
His heart hurts from just how much he’s missed this and how grateful he is to be getting it back.  
  
\---  
  
“Um – Michael?”  
  
He startles to attention. It’s the first time all day Ryan’s spoken to him since breaking the news about the breaking news without anyone else present. “Yeah?”  
  
“The master bath – did you ever – with . . . her – I mean –”  
  
“No. Never,” Michael answers quickly, knowing what the question is before he finishes getting it out.   
  
Ryan leaves without another word and Michael knows better than to call him back or follow him.  
  
\---  
  
Michael doesn’t understand his own scruples, sometimes. Yeah, it’s true the bathroom right outside their room, in the hallway, is easier for something quick, but that isn’t even the whole reason he never unlocked the door to the master bath when Mary was over.   
  
It isn’t even the main reason.  
  
Somehow, he brought her into their bedroom, into their _bed_ , but he didn’t bring her into their _bathroom_. It’s almost funny. Or it’d be funny if something like that _could_ be funny.   
  
The thing is . . . he didn’t love her. He never did.   
  
Really, she was just someone to talk to who seemed like she could understand, someone to pass the time with.   
  
He knew he was no more and no less to her.  
  
They just let what could’ve easily been a good friendship get away from them, turn into something neither of them intended, and justified it to themselves with the same things that drew them together in the first place.  
  
It wasn’t about them. It was about the people they were betraying.  
  
(How’s that for irony?  
  
How’s that for _love_?)  
  
He’d known it all along and if he didn’t, the way things ended would’ve made his feelings – and hers – perfectly clear.   
  
(Which, _fuck_. He hadn’t – even if it was unintentional – been entirely truthful in answering one of Erika’s questions, no matter how prepared for them he thought he was.)  
  
\---  
  
Michael doesn’t want to pick up the phone, wants to pretend this isn’t happening, that he has no idea who the person calling him is; he’d give anything to turn back time, to – But still, what if . . . “Hello?”  
  
“Hello, it’s –”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I, er, well – I wanted to check in after . . . everything earlier.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“To see if you’re all right. After all, I simply _left_ and I know –”  
  
“Not at all. He left.”  
  
“ _Left_ left?” she asks hesitantly.  
  
“Packed bags and left. I don’t know – I . . . I hope to God it’s not permanent, I _couldn’t_ . . . but –”  
  
“I – I am so very sorry. I just – I don’t . . .” She pauses uncomfortably. “Intellectually, you know, even morally, you’re taught that what . . . we were doing –” She’s using the past tense. Hopefully that means it won’t be difficult to – “is wrong, but . . . I put it out of my mind somehow, with Jack in London and Ella at camp and your family never at home either but now . . . I _can’t_ – knowing how anguished he must be, I – I bloody hate myself.”  
  
“I’m right there with you,” he admits.   
  
“So . . . we can agree that –”  
  
“No more,” he finishes the thought.  
  
“Very well, it’s good we’re . . . agreed on that.” She pauses. “I – I wish this had turned out differently, you know, that we hadn’t –”  
  
“Hadn’t?” he prompts, with more than a touch of worry.  
  
“Gotten carried away . . . hurt him.”   
  
“Me too. I wish –”  
  
“We just – we could’ve just been . . . such very good friends.”  
  
“We could’ve but –”  
  
“We were foolish,” she finishes sadly. “I’m so very sorry . . . I hope – I hope you will be able to . . . make amends, I – I really do hope so.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Goodbye,” she says softly.  
  
“Take care,” he responds before pressing the “end call” button and closing a chapter of his life that, more likely than not, is going to haunt him as long as he lives.  
  
As soon as he hangs up, Michael remembers something important . . . _the kids_ , how is he – He can’t, he needs time . . . he asks Elizabeth if they can stay for dinner at hers and that gives him some time to . . . think, do . . . _something_. Think about what he’ll say to them, call and text Ryan an insane number of times, more than he already has, even though all his calls go to voicemail.  
  
Michael’s never been a voicemail person, but if Ryan won’t talk to him . . .  
  
 _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._  
  
 _God, Ryan, I’m so sorry, please – please call me back._  
  
 _I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I’m worried, please just . . . get back to me._  
  
He leaves so many he eventually gets the _This mailbox is full_ message.  
  
Ryan was such a mess when he left . . . Michael’s more than a little afraid he’ll get a call saying he crashed his car into a tree or something equally horrific.  
  
The only thing response he gets (after hours of radio silence) is an e-mail – just as he’s about to pick the kids up from the Dwyers’ – with the little _Sent from my iPhone_ line at the bottom: _Stayin at motel. Tell kids on trip until I rent a place._  
  
 **Until I rent a place.**  
  
He’s blown it. He’s ruined everything.  
  
\---  
  
Everything.  
  
Because even when Michael was angry with him, even when he felt neglected by him (even when he was, damn him to hell, _jealous_ of him), it was always Ryan.  
  
It’s always been Ryan.  
  
It will always _be_ Ryan.  
  
For better or for worse.  
  
\---  
  
And the thing is, the master bath is Ryan’s brainchild, his space, his _sanctuary_. It’s quite possibly the one place in the world where he can just _be_ – for himself and for nobody else.  
  
Michael’s gone through phases where he _hates_ water. (To this day, he prefers showers.)   
  
Ryan never has.  
  
(Well, he might now.)  
  
The master bath is pretty much a sacred space. And unlike the pool, it’s a _private_ space.  
  
Michael supposes that in the back of his mind, he couldn’t bring himself to taint that.  
  
They’re the only two people who’ve ever set foot in there since the contractors finished it all up nearly seven years ago. Not even the kids – and they’ve entered and investigated and inspected every other nook and cranny of the house with the (very) exuberant curiosity typical of small children.   
  
Ollie and Lo have climbed into their bed with them, even. Of course they have. Kids do that. They wanted to cuddle or they had a nightmare. They wanted to drag their dads out of bed in the morning (and it was always the rare times Ryan didn’t need to be up at the crack of dawn for practice, _never_ on school or camp days), but were somehow convinced to sleep a little longer and just curled up under the covers between them instead of going back to their own rooms.   
  
But even they’ve never set foot in the master bath.  
  
 _Mary_ certainly wasn’t going to.  
  
\---   
  
After he’s been alone with his thoughts – and his cold, congealed plate of food – for so long he’s lost track of time, Erika barrels into the kitchen. “Do you –”  
  
“Wait a minute,” he interrupts faintly. “I just thought – realized – they weren’t going to sit on this with Ryan’s press conference coming up.” He’s not sure how he had it in him to _think_ enough to figure that out right now with everything else going through his mind, but at some point in all that time, the proverbial light bulb had gone off. “ _They_ wanted to get out ahead of _that_.”  
  
“Peter and I came to the same conclusion,” Erika tells him. “It’s . . . strange because, well, it’s not like he’d have a press conference to talk about your marital issues, but, I don’t know, I guess they wanted to go for maximum impact and if they tried to play ball, that would hold them up and put them up against the press conference and maybe they thought whatever Ryan was going to announce would be _the_ story. And it _is_ a big story. Except –”  
  
“Except?”  
  
“It would’ve actually made an even bigger splash after the fact.”  
  
“I – how?”  
  
“This is the reason he’s retiring, isn’t it? _It’s my family_ means _my husband cheated on me_ , doesn’t it? Because when I . . . kind of lost it,” she finishes self-deprecatingly, “and started saying that stuff about creative _I-cheated-becauses_ , he said _Istanbul_.”  
  
Michael doesn’t answer. It’s so –   
  
Her features go cold at his silence and it feels like an eternity before she continues (oh-so-slowly), in the chilliest of tones. “What a story, Michael . . . Ryan Lochte retires two years – no, more like a year and a half – before the next Olympiad, when he’s within striking distance of the all-time Olympic medal record – held by his husband, funnily enough – because _his husband had an affair_.” Her icy laugh sends chills up his spine. “TMZ are idiots, getting out ahead of us like they did. This could’ve been the story of the _year_ – this could’ve been bigger than Tiger – if they’d played their cards right.”  
  
“What do you mean _could’ve been_?” he asks, despite himself. The last thing he wants is for this to well and truly blow up, but he has to wonder how the hell it _wouldn’t_ , even considering there’s no smoking gun.  
  
She shakes her head, ignoring his question as her entire demeanor switches back to _Erika Wright, PR Professional_. “That’s not – do you know where Ryan is? I’ve been looking for him and I can’t – I can’t find him.”  
  
“Where’d you look?” From his question earlier, it was obvious Ryan was planning to take a bath, but it’s been ages since then.  
  
“The whole first floor. Well, all the open doors and rooms and I knocked on the closed ones and no one answered. I figured I wouldn’t go up to the bedrooms, that’s not –”  
  
“Yeah, well, he came in here a while ago and I think he probably needed some time alone –”  
  
“I wonder why.” Professional Erika has obviously taken a hike again.  
  
“Erika – don’t. Not now,” he says, feeling too weary to deal with her hostility just then.  
  
She falls silent, pressing her lips into a thin line. “I’m – I’m worried, though,” she admits after an uncomfortable silence.   
  
And so is Michael now that she’s brought it to his attention. He doesn’t want to intrude, he’s pretty sure he’s the last person in the world Ryan wants to see or speak to, of course he’s just enjoying the bath after not using it for months, taking some time to just get away from everything, from him, even from Erika. Ryan has – naturally – been all over the place since Erika got here.   
  
(Before, after Conor left with the twins, Ryan just – he’d just . . . shut down.   
  
Once Conor had driven beyond their line of vision, Michael had started to apologize, but had only gotten as far as “I’m sorry this is happening, I –” when Ryan shook his head, silently raised one hand in the universal “stop” gesture.  
  
Michael stopped.  
  
All Ryan said was “I’m gonna take care of some stuff for the kids” before wandering off to the kitchen.  
  
They didn’t exchange words again until Erika arrived.)  
  
“He’s just – it sounded like he was going to take a bath.”  
  
“Oh.” Erika bites her lip nervously. “It’s been a while.”  
  
“It has. But um, it takes a while to fill,” he explains, inexplicably trying to ease her concern as his own escalates.  
  
“I’m _worried_ ,” she insists. “Maybe I’ll –”  
  
“I’ll go check on him,” Michael cuts in, leaving before she can volunteer herself to invade _their_ space.   
  
He checks the guest room and bath first to be safe. But the prickle of anxiety he’s been feeling since Erika first pointed out how long it’s been since either of them have seen Ryan turns into full-fledged fear when he notices that one of Ryan’s sponsor gifts is missing.  
  
He breaks into a run before he’s even fully processed what its absence might mean.


	22. Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s so busy brooding that he doesn’t hear the knock.

 

  
He’s so busy brooding that he doesn’t hear the knock; he’s startled out of his deep (dark) thoughts by the sound of quick, familiar footfalls (even now he could pick them out of a crowd) and looks up, instinctively swiping a hand over his face as he lifts his head from his knees.  
  
He realizes a split second too late how red his eyes must be, if Michael’s expression – folded with concern – as he takes him in is anything to go by.  
  
“Are you –”   
  
“I’m fine. It’s fine. It’s just – it’s been, like, the longest day of my _life_ ,” Ryan insists, uncurling from his hunched-over position to let his (crossed) legs float in front of him even as he stays seated on the bench.   
  
(It’s _not_ fine but he’s not about to have some big heart-to-heart with Michael right now. That’d be the cherry on top of the sundae that is the shittiest Saturday in the history of _ever_.)  
  
Michael takes a couple deep breaths, chest heaving like he’s just finished a race, before he continues. “I – sorry. I just – just wanted to make sure you were OK. I – um, I know you’ve been out of the pool for a while, maybe you, uh, forgot how to float or something.” The look on Michael’s face is something that might (very) generously be called an _attempt_ at a smile – one his mouth just won’t cooperate with.  
  
“That’s weak, man. You probably just wanted to make sure I wasn’t, like, slitting my wrists or something, so don’t bother.” His hoarse stab at laughter is even weaker than Michael’s smile was.  
  
Michael looks horrified. “Ryan, that’s not –”  
  
“I _wouldn’t_. Can’t let Lo’s ballet go to shit, can I?” Lo’s ballet. Of all things to say.   
  
Thankfully Michael lets the subject slide, apparently deciding he doesn’t need to put Ryan on suicide watch just yet. But he’s hardly at ease, looking away as he anxiously traces the letters inked on his own wrists before finally opening his mouth, “I mean, you’ve been taking forever. I think Erika actually _was_ worried you like, drowned yourself or something.”  
  
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Tell her to cool her jets. Man needs his privacy. I mean, I could’ve been, like, jerking off or something. Stress relief. God knows I’m not getting any right now.” He did _not_ just say that out loud. He snaps his mouth shut, resisting the urge to clap his hand over it even as feels his face burn bright enough to match his eyes. He closes them out of complete humiliation before sliding further down into the water. The last fucking thing he wants to do just then is look at Michael.  
  
(Somehow admitting that out loud to Michael of all people, even if he obviously knows it, is a thousand times more embarrassing than being caught fucking _crying_.  
  
Sometimes Ryan can’t even understand himself.)   
  
“So how much longer you need to take care of business, Doggy?” Michael asks in an attempt at humor.   
  
It’s weak.  
  
“Not taking care of _that_ kind of business, Mikey.” Ryan mumbles half-into the water, eyes still closed to avoid looking at him.  
  
“Well, whatever business – bathing business. You’re taking a _bath_ ,” Michael emphasizes.  
  
“I mean, I still have to wash my hair and condition and –”  
  
“Seriously, man, you haven’t even washed your hair? Are you kidding?”   
  
“I was relaxing. I think I deserve it after today.” He does.   
  
“But still, if you don’t get moving, you might give yourself permanent prune wrinkles,” Michael points out.  
  
“Thank you for your concern. But I’m too lazy to care right now,” he finishes, moving to float on his back. He can still hear Michael moving behind him.  
  
Then, “Get a little closer to the edge again. Sit.”  
  
“Why?” he asks, reluctantly shifting back into a sitting position.  
  
“If you’re going to laze around and not wash your hair, somebody’s got to do it. God knows I have nothing better to do right now. I can’t even leave the house. I mean, I could hang out with Erika, but would you want to if you were me? I’d have to hide the steak knives.”  
  
(Michael probably _would_ , if the perma-glare on Erika’s face is anything to go by. But she wouldn’t. If only because murdering Michael herself would mean she’d be too busy getting used to life behind bars to handle Ryan’s PR needs in the face of _such a_ _great personal tragedy._ )  
  
He turns to look back, cracking one eye open to look at Michael. Yep, Michael’s sitting on the edge of the tub, legs tucked under him, waiting with a bottle of Ryan’s favorite citrus-scented shampoo beside him. (God, he hasn’t used _that_ in ages. He’s missed it. Much better than the stuff he brought with him. He didn’t think it’d be here anymore.)  
  
He’s always liked having his head rubbed and scratched, his hair touched and tousled. Why not?  
  
Ryan ignores the little voice in the back of his head wondering what kind of idiot agrees to let his semi-estranged-even-though-we’re-living-together-again-for-the-kids’-sake husband wash his fucking hair _the very same day his affair goes public_.  
  
That little voice is usually screaming _Bad idea_!   
  
It’s screaming itself hoarse today, but Ryan ignores it because it’s been a long fucking day and he _deserves_ a little pampering, even if it’s from the absolute last person he should take it from.  
  
(Ryan ignores that little voice so often he’s surprised it hasn’t stopped trying.)  
  
The little voice does at least sink in enough that he’s a little skeptical. “Are you for real?”  
  
“Yeah, Doggy.”  
  
He sighs his agreement. “All right.”  
  
He waits – impatiently – while Michael gets settled. He kicks off his shoes and starts to roll up his pants so they don’t get wet when he puts his legs in the water, but that doesn’t really work when you’re dealing with denim. Ryan gives him another skeptical look. ( _Haven’t got all day, man_.) Michael hesitates but unbuttons his jeans, unzips his fly. He slides the jeans off slowly, carefully folding them and setting them aside them next to him.  He repositions himself on the outside edge of the tub, sits back with his legs dangling into the water.  
  
“All set,” Michael announces pointlessly. “Lean back.”  
  
Ryan does as told, sits on the bench, leans back against the tub in the space between Michael’s legs. Easy does it, he tells himself, trying to avoid any unnecessary contact.   
  
(With his shoulders, it’s pretty much impossible.)   
  
_God_ , it’s good. This is why people spend money they don’t even have getting their hair washed and cut and blow-dried. The scalp massage alone is totally worth it. No matter how self-indulgent you are, there’s nothing like having somebody else do it for you. And after the day he’s had . . .  
  
 _This_ is so good he has to press his lips closed so he doesn’t make any weird noises. _Jesus Christ_.   
  
(He tries to ignore the Sunday school teacher in the back of his mind telling him that he shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.   
  
Then again, his whole same-sex-marriage-had-kids-by-a-surrogate lifestyle is an affront to the Bible, so swearing’s likely not gonna make or break him at this point.  
  
Still, his family’s Catholic and the kids do go to Catholic school, so he shouldn’t set a bad example for them.)    
  
He’d forgotten how amazing Michael is at this. It’s all in the (extra-long) fingers . . .   
  
Ryan tells himself to think of harmless, innocent stuff like puppies. Kittens. Their children. Something about school? The last one almost does the trick because the principal’s fucking _terrifying_ , but he can’t focus long enough to make it stick. Thankfully, Michael’s voice startles him out of his less-than-innocent train of thought.  
  
“Dunk.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Dunk. Dunk your head. Underwater. You know, get the shampoo off?”  
  
“Right.” When he’s done, he leans back again, ready for the conditioner.  
  
“So I thought maybe a second shampoo would be a good idea, your hair was kinda greasy when I got started. I’m not sure I got it 100% clean.”  
  
There’s something . . .  strange in Michael’s voice. He . . . does he _know_? He has to. And he’s totally fucking with him.   
  
Right here, right now, Ryan’s going to die if Michael has his way.   
  
( _Death by shampoo and conditioner_. It’ll be a first.  
  
Code for _death by Michael Phelps_. Also a first.  
  
Which is code for death by sexual frustration _due to_ Michael Phelps. Possibly _not_ a first.)  
  
Of all times, man, of all fucking _times_. “No, let’s just – I just want the conditioner, thanks.”  
  
“If you’re sure –” Michael presses.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Your loss, Ry.”  
  
Ryan makes a noncommittal noise. This round lasts even longer than the shampoo round, if possible. He tries not to think about the too-familiar legs on either side of him, the equally familiar hands sliding through his hair, fingers and nails digging into his scalp. It’s . . .  
  
“Dunk.”    
  
He does as told.  
  
After a long minute: “Feel better?”  
  
“I guess.”  
  
“You guess? Wow, that was a failure. Carry on being lazy, then,” Michael shrugs. (He can’t _see_ the gesture with his back to Michael, but he can hear it, can feel it; he can picture it readily in his mind’s eye.)  
  
Ryan’s _not_ going to give him the satisfaction of knowing the full effect he’s having. “No it wasn’t. It was good. Thanks,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even as he moves forward and turns around – legs crossed – to look directly at Michael.  
  
He figures Michael will head out now, leaving him alone to take care of business. ( _Please_.)  
  
“You’re welcome,” Mike says lowly, pupils blown so Ryan can barely see the brown of his irises.   
  
Guess he’s not the only one with business to take care of, Ryan thinks with no small sense of satisfaction. He breaks eye contact to flick his eyes downward for a split second, feeling weirdly . . . powerful, before (slowly, slowly) sliding them up again.   
  
In the too-long moment of silence and stillness that follows the air between them is charged, electric – almost tangible, like the air before a storm. Not unfamiliar (not for them), but a little uncomfortable after so long, a little bit (a lot) _too much to handle_. (Especially now.)  
  
Ryan wonders who will look away first.   
  
“God, I want you,” Michael blurts out a split second before pushing himself down into the water.   
  
That’s all it takes.  
  
Ryan closes the distance between them to capture Michael’s mouth with his own, then yanks up the sodden shirt that clings to him like a second skin to run eager hands over the body he could draw from memory, the body he knows as well as his own – different but still the same in every way that matters.    
  
(Even if _he_ isn’t it.  
  
But even after everything, it’s so _easy_.   
  
_He’s_ so easy.   
  
He would hate himself a little if he weren’t already too far gone to care.)  
  
Like riding a bike, like _swimming_ , it all comes back to him, impossible to forget, instinct guiding him even as Michael maneuvers them through the water to trap him against a wall, even as he braces himself against that wall, scraping his back as they move with and against each other.  
  
Even as the mouth attacking his own slides down his jaw to linger on his neck (sucking hard enough to leave a bruise), even as the sharp teeth nipping at his pulse point (in the way that never fails to drive him _insane_ , in a way that drives him even crazier now, after so fucking long) and the tongue darting out to lick water droplets from his shoulders threaten to render his hard-won muscle memory completely useless.   
  
Even as practiced hands with too-long fingers that have mapped every inch of his skin (rough or gentle, quick or slow, always, _always_ hungry) trail over his chest and down his stomach, even as those familiar fingers dig into his hips (hard enough to leave bruises there, too) to push him back and pull him close before sliding lower between them to make his toes curl, to make him groan so loudly the sound echoes off the walls.   
  
Even as his own hands scrabble furiously for purchase on Michael’s wet body as he gets close, closer, _closer_ . . .  
  
Mike’s hot, hooded gaze is the last thing he sees before stars explode behind his eyes.  

 


	23. If I Never See Your Face Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What took you so long? Where’s Ryan?”

 

  
“What took you so long? Where’s Ryan?” Erika demands when he returns to the kitchen looking for something – anything – to bite into, since he can’t bite anybody’s _head_ off like he’d like to. Except –  
  
“Like I said, taking a bath,” Michael snaps before he can stop himself, annoyed with himself, annoyed with her (more than before), annoyed with TMZ and the paps, annoyed with every fucking person in the world just then.  
  
She gives him a suspicious once-over, gaze lingering over his damp hair. He looks at her dead on, challengingly, daring her to ask the question in her eyes. _What, did you join him?_ If it weren’t for the fact that it’s literally none of her fucking business, he’d want her to ask just so he could answer, _Yes, fuck you, so you can stop acting like it’s the two of you against me and trying to gang the fuck up on me._  
  
“For this long?”  
  
“Yes. He just – he needs some time alone.”  
  
She repeats her words from earlier. “I wonder why.”  
  
“ _Jesus_ , lay off,” Michael snaps, having had enough just then.  
  
“Why should I?” Erika asks. “Ryan may not hold you accountable, because he’s too nice for his own good, but it doesn’t mean other people can’t or w– **”**  
  
Funny how Erika drops her professional manner the moment Ryan’s out of earshot.  
  
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Erika, so don’t pretend you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, just because you _care_ about Ryan. You’ve been _working_ for him for years. You’re not his friend; you’re sure as hell not his family –”  
  
“If you’re who qualifies as family, I certainly wouldn’t want to –”  
  
“Don’t – don’t even pull that. You're trying to keep your 15% or whatever the fuck he pays you. Speaking of payment, _he_ pays you. Not me. Because _he’s_ your client, _not me_. You’d do well to remember that. That means I don’t have to play ball. And if I don't play ball with your plans and this actually gets worse, what use does Ryan have for you then? You – you don't really think he'd choose you over us, do you?” he asks mockingly.  
  
“That’s just it. _He’s_ my client. I’m responsible and beholden to _him_ , not you. I don’t really care what happens to you as –”  
  
“So what, you’ll throw me under a bus without thinking twice even if –”  
  
She sidesteps the question. “Peter would do it to save you if your positions were –”  
  
“No, he wouldn’t because –”  
  
“Yeah well, after saying he wouldn’t touch this if there was no evidence, _Peter_ had the _nerve_ to ask what Ryan had done to make you stray. Did he cheat first, perhaps? If he’d been in front of me, I would’ve hit him. Clearly, he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with – _Ryan_ is one of the most loyal people I know. You, on the –”  
  
“The bottom line is that, whatever I did, Ryan's already confirmed we're staying together, so  . . . I may not be your client, but you sure as hell _can’t_ throw me under the bus even for Ryan’s sake, because you’d be screwing him over too. Remember Hillary?” he tosses back, recalling her comments about _standing by your man_ earlier that day. “But trust me I won’t forget you were willing –”  
  
“You – I never –”  
  
Michael rushes on, not about to let her get a word in. “Don’t even – I have your fucking number, Erika. You hated that we got married. It was one thing when you figured it was maybe just, you know, a competition fling that he would outgrow when I retired.” He pauses for effect, knowing the next part is the real kicker. “You just _knew_ that, soon enough, you'd have him all to yourself. But you didn’t and now you’re hoping Ryan leaves me. That's your play. But you can't have him.”  
  
Erika sputters at him. “Are you trying to imply –”  
  
Michael cuts her off. He’s not, not really, because he doesn’t believe it, but he doesn’t want _her_ to know that. If she thinks he is, it’ll throw her off her game and that’s exactly what he needs, because she’s not about to fuck things up for them, drive a deeper wedge between them than this whole mess did. Not that he wants her to fuck up her _job_ – because that’ll hurt Ryan, hurt them all. He just wants her to limit herself to doing that job. Nothing more, nothing less. “Not only is he _my_ husband, we have two children together. Do you think he'll just walk away from that?”  
  
“He –”  
  
He cuts her off again. “You probably do, but I have news for you. Ryan – when you called this morning, this wasn’t news to him. He knew about everything before it came out and we were working on it. Our family and friends knew –”  
  
“You said –”  
  
“They knew that we had separated and were reconciling. But you had no idea about _any of it_. Maybe that's because, like I said before, you don't fall into the category of family _or_ friend.” He resists the urge to smirk as he says it, knowing it probably stings more than she’d like to admit. She probably wishes she were to Ryan what Peter is to him. But she isn’t – and she won’t be, if he has anything to say about it, because whatever bullshit Erika’s trying to feed him, he’s confident Peter’s _never_ been as hostile to Ryan as Erika is to him. “So if you drive a wedge between us, if you’re successful in . . . I don’t know, getting Ryan to leave me, then what? There’s no guarantee that’ll happen. And anyway, with his retirement coming up, what exactly can you offer him? Especially if you don't handle this properly? Which – let’s be honest, isn’t inconceivable.” Another jab, because God knows Erika’s dropped the ball in the past, however much Ryan’s been willing to excuse her fuckery. Somebody else would’ve fired her ass years ago, but sometimes Ryan’s just too fucking nice for his own good. He and Erika can agree on _that_ much. “Are you really willing to gamble on that possibility?”  
  
Erika just glares at him. If looks could kill, Michael would be six feet under.  
  
He looks her dead in the eyes, hands flat on the counter between them, wrists facing out. “I mean, it's no secret I'm a pretty good poker player and I know _exactly_ what cards I'm holding.” He leans further forward, grateful (not for the first time) that he’s double-jointed as he braces his weight on the counter, drawing Erika’s attention exactly where he wants it.  
  
Her eyes narrow as she processes exactly what – or rather, _who_ – he means. He’s got her there and she knows it.  
  
“I can’t believe you’d use your –”  
  
He’s pretty much not going to let her get a word in edgewise. “For the record, do you think I don’t know that I fucked up? I know I did. But I also knew that before you arrived, so don’t think you're here figuring me out. I’ve known it for ages and I’ve been trying to fucking _fix it_ for ages. I'm trying to salvage my _marriage_ to Ryan. Because at the end of the day, he's _my_ _husband_. So don’t – just don’t fuck it up with your little games and power plays. And Peter – he’ll be hearing from me again, but I bet he can come up with better plans than a fucking public apology if I ask him to.” Because Peter – Peter probably wants to think the best of him, Peter’s worked with him since he was 15 years old and he gets that that can kind of put some blinders on, but _fuck_. He just can’t say shit like that about Ryan.  
  
\---  
  
Of course, that’s not all there is to it.  
  
As a rule, PR people are nothing if not cautious.  
  
Peter is – fuck, Peter’s probably hedging his bets. In case things don’t work out . . . for all that Michael told him, _insisted_ they were riding this out, sticking together, Peter’s clearly planning for all contingencies. And that’s his job, but – _damn it_.  
  
Michael’s a grown man. He’s not the teenager with dreams that sounded insane to anybody other than his mother, Bob and Peter. Peter needs to fucking listen to him, not try to undermine his plans for his _family_. Because that comes first – not the brand, not now.  
  
Not _ever_.  
  
Or else Peter’s little better than Erika.  
  
Even if he’s working out how to ensure Mary’s silence on the matter. Michael’s not about to trust _that_ to Erika, who no doubt would use the information he gave her to do it to stab him in the back if things go sou – No.  
  
( _No_. Things will not go south. Things will not go sour.  
  
They’ll make it through this if it kills him.)  
  
For all that Michael thinks Mary wouldn’t speak up because of what _she_ has at stake, because she’ll be lucky enough to escape untouched if she keeps her mouth shut, he can’t _know_. He really does think she wasn’t the one to give the scoop, but what if she _is_? And even if she isn’t, what if somebody figures out who she is, wants her to corroborate the story that’s already out there? What if she _does_?  
  
Then there’s the smoking gun.  
  
 _If needed, an NDA – and a generous sum of money_ _will take care of her. And that will be that from that corner_ , Peter promised when they spoke.  
  
Michael . . . had some reservations about that. First of all, it doesn’t seem like a good tactic to employ with someone like Mary. It doesn’t seem necessary.  
  
But Peter just emphasized the _If needed_ part of the statement.  
  
 _But_ _ideally, it’s_ not _, because an NDA creates a paper trail and I think we’d all rather – we all_ need _to – avoid that._  
  
Except it isn’t even the NDA, well that’s important, but there’s more to it – it’s really about the money. He wasn’t lying when he said that if it were possible to make this go away with money, he’d be willing to pay whatever it took.  
  
The problem is how badly paying away the problem would go over with Ryan. Because it’s the principle of the thing.  
  
 _Ryan may not like it, but I think we can all agree that the most important thing for both of you – for your_ family _– is that this remain as contained as possible._  
  
And well, there’s the fact that that the last time Peter tried to pay away a problem on his behalf, it . . . _it_ _didn’t go well_ would be the understatement of the fucking century.  
  
Not only did the problem not go away – there were pictures of him hitting a bong all over the fucking place – but it got out that they’d tried to buy them in the first place. And . . .  
  
Peter had bristled at that – just a bit, because it was Peter and if you knew Peter at all, you knew he’d be cool as a cucumber even if you pissed him off. _That it didn’t work out as planned doesn’t change the fact it was the most logical thing to do in that situation._  
  
 _As for Kellogg, we both know how unlikely they were to renew. We just handed them a way to present it well. And cover that they had just dropped the rest of the team._  
  
 _But even with that in the mix, the damage control worked, the whole thing went away in the long run._  
  
Michael had apologized (it hadn’t been entirely fair to go after Peter like that), but added that it wasn’t just about him, it was about Ryan and their children, too, and therefore even more important than containing the bong pictures, so it all _has_ to go perfectly and he’s incredibly anxious about it all.  
  
But whatever the final decisions, Peter _is_ helping.  
  
 _I understand that. I won’t let you down. When it comes down to it, I haven’t once in 18 years, have I?_ Then he went back to brisk business mode. _In the meantime, I will contact her and ask – firmly or demand, even more firmly, if a request isn’t enough – that she not contact you, that any communication – if any is even necessary, which I doubt – go through me._  
  
That was fine by Michael, so he hung up, relieved that Peter’s dealing with things he wouldn’t trust Erika with.  
  
(Because it’d be dangerous information to put in her hands, especially if –  
  
 _No_.)  
  
Of course, Erika won’t give Peter credit for any of it; she’ll just bitch till the cows home about how she rushed out to Gainesville and Peter didn’t.  
  
\---  
  
“Oh, you mean like when he had you apologize publicly after you got arrested for driving under the influence? Or like when he had you apologize publicly for using a bong? A public apology is _Peter’s_ go-to strategy, not mine.”  
  
That was unexpected.  
  
(Erika 1, Michael 0.)  
  
“More importantly, it was one of several suggestions and I scrapped that, so don’t tell me how to do my j –”  
  
Michael interrupts her then. “Because Ryan’s right. He doesn’t need to be embarrassed any more than I’ve already embarrassed him. That kind of thing would be covering _my_ ass and I don't need to get America on my side. I spent most of my life having America on my side and I have 22 Olympic medals to show for it. I don't owe America jack shit anymore. If America decides I’m the fucking devil, so be it.”  
  
(Well, it’s not nearly so black-and-white as that. He _does_ care what America thinks, he’s always cared, a whole fucking lot – well, not always, but a lot of the time.  
  
When he hasn’t, Peter’s cared for him. And _Peter_ will care if America thinks he’s the devil. Because it’s Peter’s job to care what America – what the _world_ – thinks of Michael Phelps.  
  
But when it comes down to America or his family, it’s no contest.  
  
That means America’s opinion is something he can’t afford to dwell on right now.)  
  
“America would probably be right if –”  
  
“OK then, fine.” He sure as hell doesn’t give a flying fuck what _Erika_ thinks of him. It’s not the point. Still, she’s not going to walk all over him. “But you better remember this, Erika: _You are in my house._ You may not like me. Hell, you pretty obviously hate me, but you're not allowed to come here and talk down to me or belittle me. You can hate me but you will respect me in my own fucking house.”  
  
He turns his back on her and heads to his bedroom before she can get out another word.  
  
\---  
  
Now Michael’s the one that needs time alone. He’d reacted – he was angry with himself for how he reacted when Erika had questioned them earlier, God, he sounded like such an idiot, but even with a couple hours’ warning and preparation, there was a part of him that was still completely blindsided.  
  
(And then he’d let her get under his skin when Ryan wasn’t around, after he –)  
  
After Ryan had left him to his own devices before Erika arrived, he’d spent a lot of his time thinking over the time he . . . was with Mary, tried to think who could’ve said something (could _she_ have done it? _Would_ she have done it?), who could’ve seen, whether there was anything the press could find to link them together. He’d forced himself to go over every little detail, even if his brain barely cooperated, trying to think of anything that could help or hurt them in this mess, trying to anticipate Erika’s questions.  
  
As he thought it all through, he’d tried to detach from all of it, to look at it analytically or else he’d break down and he couldn’t because he’d caused this mess, so now he had to do everything he could to fix it. He had to talk about it in the same way or he’d pussy out and he _couldn’t_ do that.  
  
But Ryan’s questions had only made it all worse. The questions he hadn’t asked in all the months he’d known (the questions Michael was beginning to think Ryan would never ask and he’d never have to answer, even if he knew –), he’d chosen to ask to today, as things fell apart.  
  
All the things he didn’t want to _know_ months ago.  
  
\---  
  
That night he does exactly as Ryan says, smoothing over the kids’ confusion (they only _just_ got back from Pan Pacs, so it’s understandable, usually when either of them travels, but especially when they all travel, they try to avoid spacing trips too close together) by telling them they’d mixed up the dates, they thought it was later, that’s why they didn’t say anything. Ollie complains, “We were gonna sail boats in the pool tomorrow!” Lo settles for pouting.  
  
(Perhaps the best advice his mother’s given him for keeping a family running – born in part from her experience dealing with his ADHD – resulted in the touchscreen in the kitchen, where they’ve got a color-coded calendar with everyone’s commitments and scheduled activities on it: red for the family, orange for Ryan and him jointly, yellow for the kids and then they each had their own individual color: green for Ollie, blue for Ryan, purple for Michael and pink for Lo.  
  
The combination of colors and a touchscreen make it fun enough that the kids check it religiously.)  
  
They’ve always made sure to give Ollie and Lo some warning when one of them has to travel, so it’s not a scary, disconcerting thing but just a normal thing that happens sometimes. So long as it’s a couple days, they’re pretty well-adjusted, since they know their other dad will be back soon.  
  
Ryan _moving out_ is an entirely different animal.  
  
How in the name of God is he going to explain _that_? He doesn’t sleep that night Googling articles on how to explain separations (and divorces are always included in the articles, too – no, God, _no_ ) to young children.  
  
The next day, he calls Ryan while the kids are still at camp. Like every time over the past 24 hours, he doesn’t pick up. All Michael says is _This is about the kids, please call me back_ when the call goes through to voicemail. (Ryan must’ve cleared it.)  
  
He’s beginning to wonder if Ryan’s listened to a single message he’s left or if he just deleted all of them and did the same with the latest when his phone rings. He moves so quickly to get it that he nearly trips over his own feet, but God forbid Ryan hang up – “Ry?”  
  
“Yeah. You called about the kids.”  
  
Jesus – “I did – I – how are we going to explain this to them? I –”  
  
“We’re not gonna to tell them what I _saw_ ,” Ryan retorts.  
  
“I – no, of course not – I, Ry, I’m so sor –”  
  
“Don’t. Just – don’t. I don’t wanna hear it.”  
  
“I –”  
  
“More important things to talk about. And I’m busy.”  
  
“With?” he asks, not sure what possesses him to ask the question just then.  
  
After a too-long pause, Ryan finally answers, “Looking for an apartment, house, whatever.”  
  
He’s really going through with it. “I – do you – can’t you?” he chokes out.  
  
“No. I can’t,” Ryan responds, a little less biting and a lot more tired. After an even longer pause than the one before, he goes back to the original topic. “About the kids?”  
  
“Well, normally I’d ask my mom but –”  
  
“Don’t,” Ryan cuts in.  
  
“I wasn’t going to, so, um, I looked up information and . . . all this stuff, it says . . . ideally, like, both parents are there when you break . . . this kind of news, but –”  
  
“I’ll – I don’t wanna come back, but I also don’t wanna do this in, like, a restaurant. Just – maybe . . . once I close –” (Close. _Close_?) “on a place, go over there and –”  
  
“It’s supposed to be better to do it somewhere familiar,” he insists with whatever courage he has left in him.  
  
After a seemingly endless silence, Ryan sighs. “I’ll . . . do it. But only, like, as long as it takes to explain to the kids.”  
  
“I – what’s going to happen with them?” he continues anxiously.  
  
“What d’you mean?”  
  
“Um, I mean, I’ll be here and you’ll be there – wherever there is – but what about them?”  
  
“ _I_ don’t wanna be in that house –” It hurts to hear Ryan talk about _their_ house, their _home_ (the home they planned and saw built from the ground up together), with that much disgust, but after what happened, well . . . he has every right to speak that way. “But . . . it’s their home and you’re around more anyway. Like it’d be harder for them to leave and stay with me than . . . um, than stay with you. Like they don’t . . . need me as much.”  
  
How can he – “They d –”  
  
“That’s the best thing,” Ryan interjects. “And for school and stuff, I mean –”  
  
“So do you – do you want weekends?” he offers finally.  
  
“Yeah.” Another silence. “Look, I’ve gotta go, but I’ll – I’ll e-mail you once I figure this out. Then we can, uh, talk to the kids.”  
  
“OK,” he agrees. After a beat, he decides, wildly, to gather his courage again. “But before you go, I just –”  
  
Ryan’s already hung up.  
  
\---  
  
“What are we doing?”  
  
“What d’you mean?”  
  
“Like, you moved out, got a pl –”  
  
“Rented,” Ryan clarifies.  
  
That’s something. _Don’t read too much into it, though._ Still, it’s a good – no, it’s just . . . not a bad sign. He has to ask, has to rip off the Band-Aid. “So, like . . . still, you’re not living here. We . . . I guess we separated. But, in the long run . . . what happens?”  
  
Ryan doesn’t answer for what feels like an eternity. “I . . . I don’t know. I can’t – I don’t know. I . . . need some time.”  
  
“I – I messed up, so much – and I’m so –”  
  
“Michael –”  
  
At this rate, he’s never going to actually manage an apology. “I just – I’ll do whatever –”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What – what do you mean, _no_?” He feels panic clawing its way up his throat, choking him so he can barely breathe. No _what_?  
  
“Like, you said, when I –”  
  
Michael knows exactly what Ryan means. He handled that completely wrong . . . Ryan had just _caught him in bed_ _with someone else_ and he chose that moment to throw every complaint he ever had at him? At literally the worst possible moment, he added insult to injury, when he should’ve thrown himself at Ryan’s feet and begged forgiveness.  
  
“All these things and just . . . like, you doing like whatever I want or whatever it takes is just gonna, like – like, I don’t know. I just don’t . . . anything, really. Except I just . . . I can’t come back.”  
  
Fuck. _Fuck_. Fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_. He’s ruined his entire fucking _li_ –  
  
“Now,” Ryan finishes. “I just . . . I need space.”  
  
It’s – hearing that all-important word, he actually remembers how to breathe again. Michael can work with that. He can. Time and space will help; they’ll make it so they can actually work this out, no matter how hard it is.  
  
They _have_ to.  
  
“I don’t . . . to be honest, I really . . . I can’t – like, I don’t think I can see you right now, like telling the kids was enough, it’s too –”  
  
Ryan might as well have stabbed him. It’s not undeserved, because _Christ_ , but still – it fucking hurts.  
  
No matter how much it kills him, he’s not going to force it. And it’s not just – it’s selfish, too, because the thought of the look on Ryan’s face when he looks at him now maybe hurts more than the thought of not seeing his face at all. 


	24. I Forgot to Remember to Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is it with people asking him to forget today?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Elvis Presley song, which I definitely do not own. Many thanks to mugglemiranda and redjacket.

“Can I ask you a question, Ry?” Michael asks what feels like a hundred years later. They’re back on the bench, sitting shoulder to shoulder now.

Closer than they’ve been in ages.

Still, Ryan can’t quite look at him as he struggles to catch his breath, feels suddenly grateful that things didn’t get all that far.

(Because _Jesus_.

If he thought letting Michael wash his hair was bad, letting Michael jerk him off. . .

What the fuck was wrong with him?

At least that’s all it was, he tells himself, feeling his already-flushed skin burn.)

“Sure,” Ryan agrees slowly, turning his head, eyes sliding warily to Michael’s.

“Just – for a second – forget everything that’s going on outside this room. Just –”

What _?_   “How can I _forget_?” Actually, being asked to forget makes Ryan _remember_.

“Just – just don’t think about it for a minute. Just lie back and ask yourself, ‘If everything could be exactly the way I wanted it – if I had the ability to turn back time, even –’”

“That’s fucking pointless, Michael,” Ryan snaps, leaning away from him as the last traces of the boneless, blissed-out high he’d still been riding only minutes earlier evaporate.

“OK – today, right now, this is the bottom. It can’t – God forbid – get all that worse. 6 months, a year from now, what do you want?” Michael holds his gaze, reflexively drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around himself.

Ryan sighs, feeling the tension that had dissipated earlier flood his muscles again as he leans back against the inner wall of the tub. “I want this all to go away. I want us all to be normal again.”

 _“_ No, what do _you_ want? Not for the kids, not for the family, for _you_.”

“That _is_ for me,” he counters, trying with all his might to focus on the water lapping around him and not on the kind suddenly threatening to spill from his eyes or on the equally sudden tightness in his chest and throat.

“It’s not. _Just_ for you, I mean,” Michael insists.

“I don’t know.” He can’t look at Michael as he tries to think, tries to remember what he might have said before, when his family’s happiness wasn’t at stake, back when that was pretty much guaranteed, but it’s like trying to remember a dream after waking up. It’s a different century, a different lifetime. He breathes out heavily, exasperated. “Can we just – can we stop playing 20 Questions, Mike? I just wanna finish my bath.”

“OK.” Michael exhales, obviously disappointed. He nods sharply, hesitates only a split second before getting out and snatching Ryan’s towel to dry off. “I’ll – I’ll leave you to it, then.” He grabs another towel from the shelves to replace it, tossing it carelessly down by the edge of the tub.  (The towels are all the same, anyway – white, thick and fluffy like the ones in hotels, except these have their initials monogrammed in blue.)

“No wait –”

Too late. Michael leaves without another word, walking like he can’t get away fast enough.

 _Damn it_.

It never used to be like this, he recalls, sighing as he soaps up.

\---

“Dude, come on, work with me here,” Ryan pleads. Ollie couldn’t care less if he tried. He’s having way too much fun splashing Daddy now that they’re basically done. “No, for real, this is the tub, not the pool. No swimming, dude, come on.”

It was _so_ much easier with Lo. It’s always easier with Lo. She treats bath time like she’s at a high-end spa. (Kind of like Ryan treats bath time when he’s using the _good_ tub.) Daisy is the only part of her bath that doesn’t fit in with the spa atmosphere, but Daisy’s been part of bath time since Cullen first presented her to Lo. (Cullen wanted to give the kid a real duck, but they’d put the kibosh on that one because, seriously, man? They already had three dogs. What would they do with a fucking _duck_?) Ryan knows better than to run a bath without Daisy by now.

With Ollie, three-quarters of the water ends up all over Ryan or the floor by the time they’re done. Tonight, it’s mostly Ryan. Once he’s done toweling Ollie off, Ryan tries not to be jealous of how warm and dry his son is wrapped up in his nice terry towel. Sitting in wet clothes with the central air cranked _sucks_.

“You should just, like, not bother with clothes when you give him his bath. You have to take them all off anyway when you’re done. So, you know, save some time,” Michael says – no, smirks, Ryan can hear it in his voice – from the doorway.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But I dunno, you really wanna scar the kid for life?” Ryan says, keeping his eyes on Ollie. “You’re not here for that, right Olls? Tell Dad,” Ryan tells him intently.

Ollie looks so serious at that that Ryan would swear he understood.

“We can afford the therapy bills,” Michael deadpans. Once he sees Michael over Ryan’s shoulder, Ollie starts flailing his arms and kicking up a storm – just like he’d been doing in the bath. He knows this is the point where he gets handed off to Dad. “Seriously, where’s the other one?” Ryan asks, holding Ollie out.

“You mean the blonde one?” Michael asks lightly as he gathers Ollie against his chest and kind of sways in place with him. Ollie’s so easy to put to sleep that’s enough to do the trick, but they don’t want him to be _too_ sleepy – just enough that he doesn’t fuss when Michael tries to put pajamas on him. Ollie _really_ doesn’t like pajamas.

(Or clothes in general. If Ollie had his way, he’d be naked 24/7.)

“Uh huh.”

“Snug in her PJs and down for the count.”

“No _way_ you had time to drive her around.” Between refusing to wear clothes and refusing to sleep unless driven around by Michael (OK, the second one’s not a new one, but still), their children have been taking _terrible twosome_ to new heights.

Even Dev’s taken some hits when he comes around – he forgot that Lo can’t stand being talked to while she’s eating and that Ollie _hates_ eating in silence, got it flipped and ended up with two bowls of soup knocked into his lap by his very unhappy niece and nephew.

(Devon tells him over and over again that _his_ kids have made it so he’ll probably never have his own. _Because, like, that shit_ hurt _, Ry. It_ burned.

Burned, his ass. His brother is such a fucking drama queen. Ryan’s not about to give his kids something burning hot. What kind of idiot does Dev take him for?

Doesn’t mean he didn’t feel bad for him.

But at least they were plastic bowls.)

“She was good tonight. Sleeping like an angel.”

“You sure? You know looks can be, like, deceiving?”

“Yeah I know. Because I know where she gets it from,” Michael says pointedly.

“For sure. ‘Cause she doesn’t get the cranky from me, that’s all you.”

“Wait –”

“Your _mom_ said it. You calling Debbie a liar?”

Michael huffs, obviously annoyed that he can’t contradict Ryan. Michael would sooner cut out his tongue than call his mother a liar. “Ollie needs his . . . you know –” _Pajamas_. It’s kind of funny, but they’re convinced Ollie understands, because he seems to get pretty worked up when they say _that_ word. So they don’t. “I’ll get it; you get out of those clothes –”

Ryan wiggles his eyebrows and grins.

“Not like – OK, yeah like that,” Michael agrees before turning serious again. “But he’s got to go to sleep first, Ry.”

“Our kids are such cockblockers,” he mutters to himself.

“Watch your mouth, man,” Michael scolds, turning his back on Ryan as though that’ll protect Ollie from his _foul language_. “

He didn’t even hear me; that’s why I said it that quiet. You didn’t hear me, did you, little man?” Ollie blinks sleepily at him over Michael’s shoulder. “See?”

Michael’s eyes are twinkling, but his mouth is set. He’s too stubborn to admit he’s amused – or that he agrees. “I’ll get him to sleep before you say anything else you’re not supposed to.”

Once Ryan’s mopped up the floor, he heads into their bathroom to trade his wet clothes for his bathrobe; he’s not going to bother putting on new, like, _real_ clothes just to go to the nursery for a little while and say good night.

Michael’s gotten Ollie into his pajamas by the time Ryan walks into the nursery and hands him over without a word before slipping out. He’s already half-asleep, so Ryan just sits in the other rocking chair and rocks with him until his breathing shifts to that rhythm that means he’s fast asleep and not waking up for hours.

He’s going to miss it when they’re too big for this. (But he’s not going to think about it yet. He’s not.) “

Night, kiddo,” Ryan whispers with a kiss on the forehead before getting up and putting Ollie down. It’s silly, but he blows a kiss to Lo, too, even though she won’t know it. No way is he picking her up when Michael actually got her to sleep without a struggle.

Once he sticks the monitor in his robe pocket and closes the door behind him, the only question on his mind is _tub or shower_?

He can’t wait to find out the answer.

\---

Time to face the music, Ryan thinks unhappily. He might’ve forgotten the outside world for a little while, but the world sure as hell hasn’t forgotten him, hasn’t forgotten _them_.

Once he’s dried off and gone back to his room to get dressed, Ryan returns to Crisis Control HQ (formerly known as their living room and/or their kitchen), feeling a little bit like those soldiers in war movies, climbing out of their foxholes toward all the mud and barbed wire and crap between the trenches.

Erika corners him immediately. When he insists he wants something from the kitchen, she follows him there, sits on a stool at the island and watches him take some of last night’s pizza out of the fridge. “You want some?”

“No, thank you, it’s all right – I’ll get room service later.”

When he’s done reheating his slices, she drops another (smaller) bomb on him: They have to talk about his retirement press conference. Which, in case he’s forgotten, is supposed to happen in three days.

He hadn’t thought about it all day; it hadn’t even crossed his mind other than when he’d thought about how badly he was letting Devon down. He had plenty of other things to think about.

And to think all they were supposed to do today was make a big hot breakfast – eggs, bacon, pancakes, the works – and take the kids to the park. He was going to go for a run before any of that, maybe even get some weights in. Easy. Mindless. A nice, normal Saturday.

Instead, he gets this.

Three days. Three days from _this_.

All of a sudden, his pizza tastes a lot like cardboard.

“It’s not feasible, Ryan, we need to cancel that or at least postpone it, effective immediately. Thank God we didn’t actually state the purpose of it.”

He snaps his head up. “Why isn’t it _feasible_?” If anything –

“You can’t possibly announce your retirement in the middle of this. It’ll be obvious why you did it –”

“I don’t really care if people to know I made a decision because – out of – for my family. They’re more important, so I don’t really care what people think.” Especially now. Except – this might not even be Erika’s point, but with what she said before, that standing by your man shit and Clinton and all that – how stupid does he look now? He takes a vicious bite out of his pizza then, not even really tasting it.

Erika looks around for a minute. Once she starts talking, he realizes that she was checking to make sure Michael was out of earshot. “Seriously, Ryan? I know you’re married and till death do us part and all that and that’s lovely and it’s definitely important, but forget Michael’s your husband for a second. Forget that you have a family together. Can you do that?”

What is it with people asking him to _forget_ today? Like that’s going to help matters. Let’s just close our eyes and pretend the shit we’re bunkering down trying to deal with didn’t happen, that this whole fucking _situation_ isn’t happening, that every fact we know to be true is a lie and it’s all in our heads, OK guys? Jesus _Christ_. (He can’t bring himself to care about the sweet little old lady who taught Sunday school when he was little this time around. If today’s shown him anything, it’s that he’s clearly already on the Big Guy’s shit list; how much worse can he make it at this point?)

Are they on something?

(Maybe Mike and Erika smoked a bowl while Ryan was busy having a meltdown. Why didn’t they let him in on it?

Maybe it’s crack. Why can’t he have some? It’s only fair that they share. After all, they’re all in this hellhole together.

Maybe they just Irished the coffee or spiked the orange juice.

He could use a drink right about now, to be honest.

Now _there’s_ an idea.)

But he swallows whatever else he might have wanted to say and nods before getting up to grab a beer (he deserves that much, at least), curious in spite of himself about where Erika’s going with this. Can’t be worse than Michael’s attempts to grill him after – He shakes his head to clear it.

“Ryan?” Erika looks confused. _Oh._ Nodding then shaking his head is probably kind of a mixed signal.

“Yeah, go ahead,” he says before returning his attention to his pizza.

Erika picks up her train of thought, speaking in an even, patient tone that belies her words. “Think about Michael Phelps the Greatest Olympian of All Time, Michael Phelps who kicked your a – butt in the pool event after event, meet after meet, year after year. Michael Phelps whose shadow you’ve been –” (were, _were_ , Ryan corrects silently as her words start to sink in, trying not to think about the double meaning there) “stuck in for most of your career. Michael Phelps whose name will _always_ come before yours in the history books – if yours is even there at all, other than as ‘husband of’ the Greatest Olympian of All Time, who also happened to have swum at the Olympics and won some medals. _No big deal_. Think about _that_ guy. Think about all the times you didn’t get enough credit for all the amazing swimming _you_ did – all the times you blew everybody else out of the water – because it wasn’t thought to be up to _his_ standard before making any hasty decisions, OK?”

 _Michael Phelps whose name will_ always _come before yours in the history books – if yours is even there at all, other than as ‘husband of’ the Greatest Olympian of All Time, who also happened to have swum at the Olympics and won some medals._ No big deal _._ The thought disgusts him, leaves a vile taste in his mouth, threatens to make the formerly tasteless pizza he’d put down halfway through Erika’s spiel come back up.

Having all the blood, sweat and tears he put into his swimming – all the _sacrifices_ he made, all the sacrifices his _family_ (both the family he was born into and the family they’ve built) made – reduced to nothing in the shadow of Michael’s legend is too bitter a pill to swallow in that moment, on top of what Michael did, on top of how it’s brought a nightmare – a nightmare that’s really only just getting started – crashing down on all their heads. His heart’s pounding double-time now. It’s fucking _infuriating_ ; right then he wants nothing more than to put his fist through the nearest wall.

Or Michael’s _face_. He’d stopped himself once, ages ago, but he’s not sure he could just now. Because it’s just . . . too fucking much, today of all days.

The thought has him gripping his empty beer bottle so tight he’s lucky he doesn’t end up with little bits of glass stuck in his hand. He knows from experience that hurts like a motherfucker. Still . . . “Erika –”

“Do you really want your career to end that way, Ryan? In the midst of the biggest personal scandal an Olympian’s likely to have ever been caught up in?” she presses.

_God, do you really want to go out like this? 16 years as a Gator – 16 years as a world-class swimmer, so many of those as the best – and it ends with you withdrawing from your last meet?_

It ends with the _entire world_ knowing Michael jerked him around.

That he’s not enough for The Greatest Olympian of All Time. That he’s not strong enough to tough it out to the natural conclusion of a stellar (but not quite stellar _enough_ ) swimming career.

It ends with Michael getting everything he ever wanted: the untouchable legend, kids when he wanted them (not that Ryan would change that now, not for anything), Ryan’s retirement, Ryan himself.

(Though truthfully he’s not sure why right now.

Why anymore.

Why ever at all.)

Everything.

Every. Damn. Thing.

Even after what he fucking _did_.

“I mean, now I get it. I get why you were so insistent about retiring, what with your whole life outside the pool falling the f – _eff_ apart, I really do, but it’s not fair. You’ve worked too hard. You deserve better than that.”

She’s – she’s right. Whatever mistakes Ryan’s made (and he’s made plenty), he deserves better than going out this way, with this kind of shadow hanging over him – the kind that makes everything he’s worked for since he was a kid mean nothing.

But he doesn’t answer her. Instead, he asks if she’d like a beer.

She gives him a questioning look before nodding. “Just don’t tell anyone I was drinking on the job.”He nods back and opens two. He hands her one with a quietly encouraging “Bottoms up” before sitting down across from her. She just holds her bottle for a bit, so he raises his own with an equally quiet “Cheers.”

“To what?” Erika asks quizzically, looking more than a little confused at his not-so-little mood swing.

“Not making hasty decisions.”

This time, it’s an assessing look. “I’ll drink to that,” she finally agrees as she clinks her bottle against his with a slightly grim smile.

Somehow his mouth cooperates enough to let him smile back.


	25. Promises

_You probably just wanted to make sure I wasn’t, like, slitting my wrists or something, so don’t bother._

  
He’d practically been panting from his run down the hall and stairs, but so fucking  _relieved_ that it didn’t even matter. Any pain in his chest wasn’t due to the running, it was all from the pain on Ryan’s face and that – that was all he was able to see or think about. And he tried – really pathetically, but he did – to make it not so bad –  
  
Until those words turned his blood to ice and knocked the breath out of him. It had taken him what felt like an eternity to form words again, because it was  _true_ and everything he could possibly say was wrong – things like  _Yeah, actually, considering your blinged-out razor was missing; You fucking scared me to death; I thought I was gonna find you unconscious – or God forbid – dead, with the water turning pink around you like in the movies_. But he wasn’t . . . he couldn’t  _admit_ that. Either he’d offend Ryan or anger him or otherwise upset him . . . or worst of all, put a terrible – a terribly  _dangerous_ – idea in his head he hadn’t actually considered when he was obviously emotionally susceptible. And the power of suggestion was way too powerful a thing for him to risk  _that_.   
  
But he had to have a reason for showing up like a bat out of hell when all Ryan wanted to do (presumably) was take a bath, so he told Ryan half the truth: he blamed Erika.   
  
And then tried to drag things the conversation out as much as possible – he wanted to have Ryan right in front of him, where he could see him and know he was all right. (Not to mention he couldn’t help but notice the razor  _was_  right there, within easy reach, rather than placed on the bathroom counter between the double sinks or somewhere else equally logical, so he couldn’t . . . he just couldn’t be entirely sure.) He wasn’t about to leave if he could avoid it.  
  
And then Ryan had said  _that_  and it all . . . snowballed from there, with him mentally egging himself on.  _Easy does it, don’t spook him_. . . But eventually he hadn’t been able to help himself because  _God_  . . .  
  
He thought – he thought it meant something that Ryan didn’t recoil from his touch, seemed to welcome it, even. That maybe Ryan might give a little, might actually talk to him, but he’d been disabused of  _that_  notion pretty fucking quickly.     
  
\---  
  
Ryan e-mails the second night after he’s moved out, saying that he’s set, but needs to spend the next day stocking up on supplies so he can be ready to have the kids come,  _talk day after tomorrow?_   _Before dinner._  
  
 _After dinner? They’re going to be upset, it would be better if at least they’ve eaten something first,_  Michael responds. It’d be cruel to do that to them: they’d see Ryan was home and expect their usual Friday night dinner; wings and pizza were a family occasion without fail, it only happened if all four of them were home, but of course that wouldn’t even be the worst of it – the worst part would be the fact that he was leaving with no intention of coming back . . . no intention of coming back  _soon_ , Michael amends.  He hesitates as he types out his response, it seems so . . . cold. He adds  _I’m sorry._  
  
All he gets in return is  _Be there 6:45._  
  
Two days later, Michael can barely eat a single bite of food, he’s so anxious about Ryan’s r –  _visit_ , he corrects mentally.  _Visit_.  
  
He ends up throwing away nearly everything on his plate because he just can’t stomach it and once the kids are done, he just wants to clear the table.  
  
Lo gives him a disbelieving  _Look_ once he’s started running the dishwasher and put the pots in the sink. “Not fair! I get in trouble when I don’t eat dinner.”  
  
“You get in trouble when you say you’re too full and don’t want to eat your  _vegetables_ and then want dessert,” Michael corrects. “I only ate a little of all of it because I don’t feel well.” It’s not really a lie.  
  
Lo gives him an apologetic look. “Does your tummy hurt, Dad?”  
  
“Kind of.”  
  
“You should have tea,” Ollie chimes in wisely. Lo nods. Peppermint or chamomile tea is a pretty common, Debbie Phelps-approved solution for an upset stomach in their household. (Ginger ale – Ryan’s preferred choice – is the other.)  
  
But their hugs do more for him than any tea could.  
  
At 6:45 on the dot, as Ollie and Lo are finishing off the cookies they got to have for dessert because  _they_ ate their dinners, the doorbell rings.  
  
The kids are visibly confused; they expected Daddy, who’d use his keys, not a visitor who’d knock.  
  
Michael gets up to open the door, half-wanting never to get to the door and half-wanting to run and open it. When he does, Ryan just  _looks_  at him for a beat, face so expressionless he seems like a different person. “Hey.”  
  
“Um, hi. Can I –”  
  
“I – of course, you don’t need –” Please, God, don’t let him get too used to the new (temporary, _temporary_ ) place, stop thinking of  _this_  as home for good.  
  
Ryan doesn’t reply, but a tension – more than that already apparent – seems to run through him as he stiffens, drawing into himself. Michael can’t help but turn, follow his gaze – up the stairs, up to – “Where are the kids?” Ryan asks abruptly.  
  
He’d asked them to sit while he started cleaning up after dinner. “In the kitchen.” It’s only when he just stands there that Michael realizes that Ryan’s waiting for him to go first, to lead him there like he actually  _is_  a visitor.  
  
He’s fucked. Utterly fucked.  
  
He’s ruined everything.  
  
\---  
  
Ollie and Lo are confused and surprised – very, very happily surprised – to see Daddy home and run at him full speed. Ollie gets to him first and throws himself into his arms, with an “I missed you!”  
  
Ryan picks him up in one fell swoop, holds onto him until Lo gets impatient and tugs at one of Ollie’s dangling feet to get her turn. Once she’s had her own bear hug, she turns to show Ryan the state of her hair. When Ryan’s not around to take care of it, Michael normally tries to keep it simple with a ponytail – he’s gotten the hang of that, at least, but she’d insisted all the girls at camp planned to wear braids on the last day,  _So I have to, Dad, I have to!_    
  
The result was . . .  _atrocious_  was a generous word for it, really, but Michael hadn’t gotten around to undoing it and brushing it out after they got home.  He told himself he’d do it before her bath.  
  
“Oh  _wow_ , princess,” Ryan says sympathetically. “I’ll fix it if you get me your brush.”  
  
Lo runs out of the kitchen without another word.  
  
“Don’t run up the stairs, you’ll hurt yourself!” Michael calls after her before turning his attention to the pots.   
  
Ryan finally sits down – in his usual seat – and turns back to Ollie, who’s just polished off the last of his second cookie. “How was your last day of camp?”  
  
“Really, really fun!” Ollie enthuses before the corners of his lips turn down. “But I’m sad we don’t get to go anymore.”  
  
“But then you have school –” Michael’s not sure Ollie will see that as a  _good_  thing. “And you get to see your friends who didn’t go to camp, too,” Ryan points out, restoring Ollie’s usual smile.  
  
“So when are we gonna sail my boats?” Ollie asks.  
  
“Um –” Ryan hedges uncomfortably. Michael can picture the awkward look on his face, just like when someone asks him a question he doesn’t know the answer to in an interview.  
  
Lo rescues him by returning with her brush just then. Ryan takes it from her and starts undoing her messy braids, carefully untangling the knots that have formed over the day before brushing it all out and starting from scratch. They’ll have to be unbraided again at bath time, but Lo is too pleased for Michael to say anything.  
  
“You look pretty, Bean,” Michael compliments Lo when he turns around and sees her hair is done.  
  
“What do you say?” Ryan prompts her when she forgets.  
  
“Oh!” she says with a little embarrassment. “Thank you, Dad!” she continues with a sweet smile.  
  
“You’re welcome. What about Daddy?”  
  
“Thank you for fixing my hair, Daddy,” she says, flashing Ryan an equally sweet smile before sitting down next to him and across from Ollie.  
  
“No problem.”  
  
“You going to finish your cookies?” Michael asks. They’re the only thing left on the table at that point.  
  
“Nope.” It’s not like her, but he’s not going to question it when one of the kids turns down something sugary. Ollie is eying them hopefully, but Lo isn’t looking at him. “Dad didn’t eat dinner. ‘Cause his tummy hurts,” she tells Ryan. Ryan shoots him a look out of the corner of his eye, but says nothing. “Did you?”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“You can have my cookies,” she offers.  
  
“How about I split them with Ols?”  
  
Lo looks tempted to protest – probably to say it’s not fair, since seconds of dessert are usually a no-no in their house because the twins get  _way_ too hyper if they’ve had too much sugar and Ollie especially so – but she melts in the face of her brother’s pleading look. “Uh-huh.”  
  
“Thanks, Lo.”  
  
“You’re welcome.” Mostly they’ve got it nailed down, but it never hurts to remind them.  
  
There’s an awkward silence as Ollie and Ryan munch on their cookies. Once they’re done, Ryan picks up the plate, walks over to put it in the dishwasher and runs it. For all that he’s acting like this isn’t his house, some instincts are obviously too firmly entrenched.  
  
Michael takes a deep breath, knowing what’s got to happen once Ryan’s sat back down.   
  
They both look at each other a beat too long until Michael bites the bullet and kicks off the conversation and tries not to sound how he feels. “So guys, um, Daddy and I need to talk to you.”  
  
The twins turn their attention to him, not looking terribly concerned. Just curious. He’s not looking forward to how their expressions will change when he actually gets this out. “Daddy and I . . . have decided not to live together in the same house.” He leaves off phrases that suggest a time frame (“for a while” versus “anymore,”) because he doesn’t  _know_. It may (he hopes) be temporary, but it’s one thing to get his own hopes up and another thing entirely to get  _their_ hopes up.  
  
Their eyes go wide.  
  
“You’ll live here with me and I’ll take you to school and everything else. And then starting next week, on Friday night, you’ll go stay with Daddy at his new house and come back Sunday night. We’ll put it on the calendar so we all know and don’t get confused.”  
  
The lack of reaction is beginning to scare him. “We –”  
  
He realizes that Lo’s lip is wobbling a split second before she bursts into tears. Ryan throws an arm around her pulling her close as she cries into his chest. It’s getting harder and harder for him – and Michael too – to keep a calm and neutral expression, but they have to. They can’t get emotional themselves. They have to make sure the kids feel safe.  
  
Ollie just stares at Lo before finally asking, in a smaller voice than Michael’s ever heard from him, “Why?”  
  
Michael takes Ollie’s hand in his and tries to phrase it right, but Ryan clears his throat and starts instead. Michael’s half-afraid of what may come out his mouth. “Sometimes . . . adults have problems they can’t fix, so they can’t live together. And that’s what’s happened with Dad and me.”  
  
 _Sometimes . . . adults have problems they can’t fix, so they can’t live together. And that’s what’s happened with Dad and me._  
  
 _Sometimes . . . adults have problems they can’t fix, so they can’t live together. And that’s what’s happened with Dad and me._  
  
 _Sometimes . . . adults have problems_ they can’t fix,  _so they can’t live together. And that’s what’s happened with Dad and me._  
  
It sounds . . . it sounds like boiler-plate explaining-a-separation-or-divorce-to-your-children language but it also sounds so . . .  _final_. He knows they can’t afford to get the kids’ hopes up, but . . . it feels like Ryan’s sending him a message, too.  
  
“This is a grown-up decision and has nothing to do with anything you did. We love you so much and will always take care of you, no matter what,” Michael finishes, pretty much parroting everything he read. And he does mean it, with all his heart, but it’s too much to try and think of something original in that moment.  
  
They sit for a while in silence, just letting Lo cry it out and Ollie process it in his own way, each holding one of the kids until Lo’s sobs give way to sniffles. Finally, Ryan quietly tells them he needs to go to his new place because it’s late.  
  
“Please don’t go, I’ll be good, I promise,” Ollie begs, scrambling out of his chair to throw his arms around Ryan.  
  
After letting Ollie hold on for a little, Ryan pulls back, puts an arm around his shoulders and looks him in the eyes. “Ols, look. Look at me, OK? You’re perfect. Lo, too,” he adds, putting his other hand on her back and looking at her in turn. “You’re the best kids in the whole world,” he says, dead seriously. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I love you so much. And so does Dad. But sometimes grown-ups can’t live in the same house together. It’s grown-up stuff, it’s  _nothing_  you did, I promise. I always tell you the truth, don’t I?”  
  
Ollie nods, wiping stubbornly at his eyes, obviously trying to keep tears at bay. Lo nods tiredly.  
  
He kisses them each on top of the head and stands up. “I love you, be good for Dad, OK? I’ll see you on Friday. Elizabeth’s gonna drive you over.” Another kiss. “Love you.”  
  
As opposed as he was been to the idea of even returning for an hour, Ryan now looks like it literally  _kills_  him to leave when he lets the kids go, taking one last look at them as he walks out of the kitchen.  
  
Michael hates being the reason he’s doing it in the first place, wants to follow but – he has two children in front of him who’ve just had their world turned upside down.  _They_  need him.  
  
(They need Ryan, too, but he’s all they’ve got right now.  
  
And it’s entirely his own fault.)  
  
Michael knows he’s supposed to stick to their routines, but he thinks Ollie and Lo need the comfort more than they need the routine right now, so he doesn’t bother with their baths or unbraiding Lo’s hair or any of their pre-bedtime activities. He brings them straight to their –  _his?_  – room and lets the twins sleep with him that night. They’re too wrung out to need or want a story.  
  
“Things will be OK, we’ll always take care of you, no matter what,” Michael murmurs soothingly to Ollie, who’s curled into his left side and struggling against sleep long after Lo’s dropped off on his other side, making the little noises she always indignantly insists aren’t snores. “I promise.”  
  
Ollie doesn’t reply, but the small fingers gripping Michael’s wrist don’t loosen their hold even in deepest sleep that first long night.  
  
\---  
  
Whichever promises to Ryan he’s broken, he’s not about to break promises to their children.  
  
That’s the only reason he leaves the bedroom again that night, hoping that Erika’s still there (the irony of the fact that he  _wants_ to have Erika around isn’t lost on him and it’s so depressing he’d rather not think about it) so he doesn’t have to face Ryan alone.  
  
Apparently they’ve been . . . drinking? Not that one beer a piece really qualifies as  _drinking_  (one of them had two, though), but the look Erika shoots him when he clears his throat is strangely . . . satisfied. Probably because drinking beers in the kitchen is something  _friends_  would do. He can almost  _hear_ her voice in his head:  _You were saying, Michael?_  
  
Ryan doesn’t acknowledge him, so he finally says, “Can you call your mother?”               
  
(There’s no way he’s calling Ike himself. Ryan has to have told her by now and he just . . .  can’t.  
  
He’ll have to talk to her eventually, but there was a part of him that thought she’d never know, that he’d never have to talk to her  _knowing_  that she knows, the part that was relieved when Ryan insisted they keep the specifics of their marital problems to themselves.  
  
The same part of him that was shocked Ryan wanted to share the details – well, at least with Ike – after spending months wanting to keep it between the two of them, precisely when Erika told them not to tell  _anyone_.  
  
But does it really matter?  
  
Now it’s all out for the whole  _world_ to see.)  
  
“What for?”  
  
“Did you forget you promised Ollie and Lo we’d call them?”  
  
Ryan bristles at that. “Of course not.”  
  
“Well, it’s getting late. And I thought – I don’t know, I could like, do their bedtime story on Skype or something.”  
  
“That’s a good idea.” It’s strange to hear a compliment from Ryan right now. “Too bad you didn’t think of that when I was living there and they hated  _my_ bedtime stories,” he finishes coolly.  
  
“It just – I only thought of it now.” He knows Ryan’s upset, but is he seriously mad at him for  _that_  right now? Like he doesn’t have other things to be mad about, he’s going to pick a little thing like that to make a fuss over.  
  
(But it probably didn’t seem so little in September.  
  
 _Like when Lo said she wanted_ you _to tell us bedtime stories. She cried and_ everything  _and he was so_ sad _._  
  
 _Yeah, at bedtime every night, you know, when I was – when I moved out, she would like, completely freak out and cry because you know my bedtime stories suck. Like literally she hated them so much she would like cut me off and didn’t even want a kiss goodnight and just kept saying she wanted you._ )  
  
“Yeah, well, I’ll call Mom.”  
  
\---  
  
Tonight, the story is  _Eloise at Christmastime_. It’s one of Lo’s favorites. Tomorrow will be one of Ollie’s usual choices:  _The_   _Nightmare Before Christmas_. They take turns choosing stories each night, so there’s usually some variety, but for Christmas it’s a bit more repetitive because there are only so many holiday-themed options.  
  
They crack their first smiles of the day (he doesn’t know whether the looks on their faces or the words that accompanied them – “I miss you!” “I wanna come home.” “Please, Dad, please.” – when he first sat down in front of the screen broke his heart more) when Michael switches to his Eloise voice:  
  
 _We hang everything_  
 _on our Christmas tree_  
 _Ornaments big and bright_  
 _and all of these sparkling icicles_  
 _and twirling balls of white_  
  
Their eyes start to droop as the story progresses. By the second-to-last page, they’re fast asleep. But he doesn’t stop until the last line, just to be sure.  
  
But mostly because he doesn’t want to hang up. They look so peaceful he just wants to watch them forever.  
  
But Ike will eventually return to shut the laptop and lights off and that’s an encounter Michael would rather avoid, so he ends the call.  
  
\---  
  
Once Erika goes off to her hotel, the house is as silent as a tomb.  
  
Now that the twins have had their bedtime story, Michael has no idea what to do with himself, how he’ll possibly sleep. In that moment, he wishes he took sleeping pills, at least then he could try that. But he doesn’t, so he’ll just have to hope he’ll be tired out eventually.  
  
As he tries to relax, he wills away the images of his husband’s and children’s unhappy faces, wills away the feelings they provoke, wills it all away.  It takes every fiber of his being, but he’s almost managed it when he hears a knock at the door that startles him out of his zone.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
This time, Ryan opens the door but doesn’t cross the threshold, just stands there, silently considering him a beat – several beats – too long. Finally: “You still want me to do Istanbul?”  
  
“I – I –” Michael stammers in disbelief. “You don’t want to do it. It’s not about what I want,” he finally manages.  
  
“It isn’t?” Ryan asks.  
  
“No.”  
  
“You sure? I mean . . . today’s proof of what happened the last time I didn’t do what you wanted,” Ryan continues with a mocking twist to his tone that doesn’t – that will  _never_  – suit him.  
  
Michael flinches. “I can’t even – you’re right. Of course you’re right.”  
  
“Wow. I should write that down. First and probably last time I’ll ever hear you say that.” The mocking twist’s morphed into full-fledged sarcasm.  
  
“Ryan –”  
  
“What happens if I change my mind? What happens if I go for it again?”  
  
“Do you want to go for it?” If he does –  
  
“Yes,” Ryan answers. Quickly, decisively . . .   _challengingly_. Like he’s expecting – no, wanting – a fight.  
  
Michael won’t rise to the bait. He won’t. “Then I have your back.”  
  
“Do you really?” Make that  _spoiling for_ a fight.  
  
“I do,” Michael replies as evenly as he can. He may have no idea what’s changed Ryan’s mind, why  _today_ , but the words come easily. “I promise.”  
  
 _Trust me, please,_ please _trust me._  
  
Ryan leaves without another word.


	26. Nothing Gold Can Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's no more prepared for what's waiting for him downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the poem of the same name by Robert Frost.

Michael tries not to look at Caroline, doesn’t want to remember that she’s there. That she’s in Omaha.   
  
That she’s at Trials.   
  
That she’s in Ryan’s life.   
  
It’s not like he could hang all over Ryan like that even if she  _wasn’t_  in the picture, but her presence still pours salt in a self-inflicted wound.  
  
 _He_  was the one who pushed Ryan away, might as well have pushed him straight into her arms, sealing himself off the way he did because Ryan couldn’t  _possibly_  understand the pressure.   
  
(Yeah, Ryan wasn’t going for eight gold medals, Ryan didn’t have guys like Thorpe and Cavic shit-talking him, but he wasn’t exactly a stranger to the world of swimming or even to high-stakes national and international competition.)   
  
Somewhere along the line, Michael came to see Ryan’s ability to get his mind off things as a bad thing, as a distraction, as something that hurt his swimming, hurt  _him_.   
  
So he cut Ryan loose.   
  
Ryan appeared to . . . accept it with remarkable good grace. He puts on a good face in public: he’s still generous with claps on the back and bro hugs and smiles, still partners him for spades. But a little of the light that used to be in his eyes when he looked at Michael is gone out; he looks at him no differently than he does anyone else.   
  
Ryan doesn’t look at Caroline differently either, but she does make him smile. And laugh. And laugh and laugh and laugh. Michael heard through the grapevine Ryan had started seeing a fellow Gator, but had the good fortune not to have to see them together until Trials. They’ve both made the team at this point (Ryan in multiple events, Caroline in the 4x2 free relay) and are chatting with Ryan’s family – a fact Michael only realizes after he’s started to make his way over. He’d spotted Ike and figured it would be rude not to say hello.    
  
The first thing he notices, near as he is, is that Ryan looks . . . comfortable. Michael would never wish Ryan ill; he wants him to be happy but . . . he hoped – no. He – perhaps selfishly, arrogantly – assumed that Ryan would wait for him. After all, he’d said  _I can’t do this_ right now. He thought Ryan would understand, would know what he meant. He was confident that he could have Ryan back when he was ready, when Beijing was behind him – behind them both.   
  
He hadn’t expected this. Because there hadn’t been anybody else for a long time, even though they weren’t explicitly . . . anything, specifically.   
  
(Well, there was Nicole, but Ryan knew what she was – and wasn’t – from the get-go.)   
  
But Caroline . . .   
  
If Michael hadn’t been able to see it for himself, he would’ve known it from the vaguely pitying look on Ike’s face that day at Trials when he stops staring at them long enough for her to catch his eye. He knows she means well – she’s always liked him – but he can’t stand it, so he settles for pasting a smile on his face and waving to her before heading off to find . . .  _anyone_.   
  
\---  
  
That last night in Beijing, they’re both (literally) drunk and (figuratively, though you can never know for sure with Ryan) high off their successes. Ryan is even livelier than usual, now that he’s both entirely well  _and_ done with the meet.   
  
Not long after the 400 IM, Ryan was cleared to leave the infirmary and return to their shared room. It was . . . uncomfortable. Like neither of them knew what to do when there weren’t other people around as a buffer, when they weren’t at the pool, where they could pretend they had no history other than as teammates and competitors. All they could do was try to come back at different times, one of them making sure to be out or in the shower or asleep when the other was in the room.  
  
But that last night, with limbs loosened and senses dulled by alcohol, they leave the party at the same time – leave  _together_ , even go back to their room together. Once they’re inside, they both lie down on their beds and stare up at the ceiling, the silence is . . . not so uneasy anymore.   
  
Still, after a while, once his buzz’s faded a bit, Michael realizes that maybe – “Do you want me to leave?”  
  
Ryan, who apparently was dozing off, startles to attention. “I – what – no.”  
  
“I just, um – I figured maybe you wanted to, um, have your – Caroline, you know, come over. And like, I doubt you want an audience.” His laugh sounds like someone strangling a cat.  
  
“Maybe I, like, get off on it. Like a – what are they called?”  
  
“An exhibitionist,” Michael answers disbelievingly. Ryan must be even drunker than he thought.  
  
“Yeah, like that.” Ryan shrugs like he’s talking about what color sheets he likes best. “You never know.”   
  
“I think I w –” Michael cuts himself off. He’s not about to make it awkward. “Well, she might not.”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t know. Could ask.”  
  
“You . . . you like her?” Michael wishes he could snatch back the abrupt, ill-advised question the second it slips past his lips.  Of course Ryan likes her. He’s  _dating_  her. But the  _last_  thing Michael wants is to have to hear how wonderful Caroline is. Between that question and his usual sets, he’s beginning to think he has a masochistic streak a mile wide.   
  
“She’s – yeah. She’s, like, she’s great. I mean, she’s fun, she’s hot,” Ryan answers, eyes on the ceiling before lapsing into a far less comfortable silence than the one before. “But . . . she’s not you,” he admits quietly, after so long Michael assumed their conversation was at an end. Ryan’s eyes are still on the ceiling as he continues. “Nobody is, dude. I never would’ve gone there, never even looked at her like – because I – because you.” He stops abruptly.  
  
Michael doesn’t quite know what to say, how honest to be. He’s won his eight medals, so he can’t fuck that up. He  _can_  still fuck things outside the pool up even more than he already has. But he just . . . goes for it, turning his gaze from Ryan to the ceiling above his own bed. “I thought you’d wait for me. It – man, it really sucked when you didn’t.”  
  
Ryan sits up then and Michael can  _feel_ Ryan’s eyes on him, knows he just  _looks_  at him for a long time. If Ryan’s trying to make him sweat, he’s doing a good fucking job. “I didn’t know you wanted me to.”  
  
“I said we couldn’t  _right now_. I thought I was being pretty clear,” Michael replies a little loudly, with a touch of anger, as he sits up to look at Ryan.  
  
“All I heard was that you  _couldn’t_ ,” Ryan responds, with an exasperation that matches Michael’s anger. “Out of nowhere, man. Out of fucking nowhere. You remember that part? Blow jobs, bacon and a breakup. Fucking  _phenomenal_ morning. Except for, you know, the last one. Barely fuckin’ swallowed, then bam!”  
  
“We weren’t, like, you know –” Michael begins defensively, looking away again.  
  
“Boyfriends?” Ryan finishes tentatively, over-casually, when he doesn’t, not looking at him either.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I just – no, you know, fuck you,” Ryan changes tack abruptly, moving to stand in front of Michael’s bed and look down at him, words tumbling out in a rush. “ _Fuck you._ Yeah, we didn’t have, like, a fucking label and we never walked around holding hands and like, giving each other goofy looks and shit – because we’re  _dudes_ , plus we  _can’t_ because, you know, sponsors and all that shit and people are douchebags – but, like, there wasn’t anybody else –”  
  
Michael raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Yeah, ‘til now,” Ryan snaps. “Because we’re not, like . . . anything. We’re nothing.”  
  
 _We’re nothing_. Plain and simple. That’s exactly right, so it shouldn’t hurt, but it does.   
  
“But we  _were_ , pretty much, Mike, no matter what you think,” Ryan continues, dropping back down on his bed with a tired thump, eyes on the ceiling yet again.  
  
They hadn’t just slept together; they talked and texted, goofed off, played video games and cards, visited each other more than any other swimmers on the national team visited each other, shared music at meets and had scarily similar taste – above all an unhealthy love of Lil Wayne. They swapped (or stole each other’s) shirts and Speedos without batting an eye.   
  
Ryan was the only person who wasn’t his blood or his coach who he talked to – or at least communicated with (texting was really their thing) – daily.  
  
Ryan was the only person who dared to talk to him before a race.  
  
Even if anybody else tried, Ryan was also the only person he’d actually  _answer_ and engage with.  
  
“You’re right,” Michael finally says, so quietly he wouldn’t be surprised if Ryan – even sitting only a couple feet across from him as he is – didn’t hear him.   
  
But Ryan rolls onto his side at the words, turning surprised blue eyes on him. There’s – maybe he’s imagining it, but there’s just a little bit of that old light there.  
  
“Could we . . . again? Now?” Michael asks, holding his gaze. But the split second after he finally gets the question out, he wants to snatch the words up again, because now –  
  
“Yeah,” Ryan answers, without even the barest hesitation. He gets up and lies down beside Michael, to his right – Ryan’s usual side of the bed. “If it can be you, it’s gonna be you. You and me, Mike.”   
  
And that’s that.  
  
The only thing brighter than Ryan’s smile is the one Michael feels spreading across his own face.  
  
\---  
  
Ryan never actually cheats on Caroline, contrary to the rumors that will quietly (very quietly) wind their way around over the years.   
  
 _Because, like, fuck, Mike_.  _She – she’s nice. I’m not gonna play her like that. I like her. I might not – I mean, yeah, it’s you I, like . . . wanna be with, but I’m not gonna be an asshole._  
  
\---  
  
Resisting the temptation to test Ryan’s resolve might be a more impressive feat than winning 8 golds. The warm, familiar press of Ryan’s body  _right there next to him_  made it even h – more difficult. And, yeah, of course  _harder_.  _Ha ha ha_.  
  
As a rule, he’s always been less likely to initiate things than Ryan, but he’s never wanted to change things up more than he does that night. Too many times to count, he turns toward Ryan, fast asleep, and considers pressing his lips to the spot behind Ryan’s left ear, to the place where his neck meets his shoulder . . .  
  
But he settles for stroking his thumb across Ryan’s wrist beneath the covers, lingering over his pulse point until he slides his own fingers – slowly, slowly, so as not to wake him – through Ryan’s.  
  
 _Michael and Ryan, holding hands_ , he thinks wryly, wanting to laugh as he feels something new and unfamiliar bubbling up inside him, spreading through his veins so he can barely fall asleep.  
  
For all the best reasons.  
  
But the next morning, he concludes he’ll fall asleep far more easily from now on, knowing what he’ll wake up to: Ryan, eyes sleepy, curls rumpled, smile soft, curled toward him.  
  
It’s not an unfamiliar sight. The only difference is what’s between them: their joined hands, fingers still laced together.   
  
He blinks a few times, waiting Ryan out. “Morning.”   
  
“Morning,” he replies, voice thick with sleep. “You wake me up to tell me good morning?”  
  
“Nah, I – um – I’ve gotta, you know.” Ryan looks away for a second before his eyes slide back to Michael’s.   
  
 _Oh_.  
  
“Just, um – don’t go anywhere, OK? I’m – I’m gonna come right back.”  
  
“You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do,” he answers, squeezing Ryan’s hand. “Go. But hurry the fuck up, Doggy, I’ll be waiting!” he calls as Ryan walks toward the door.     
  
\---  
  
The worst thing about winning 8 gold medals is the fact that everyone wants a piece of you.   
  
And the amount of press time everyone  _getting_ a piece of you entails.  
  
By the time Ryan gets back, there isn’t all that much time to make up for lost time before Michael needs to go (and eventually Ryan will too), but they do their best.  
  
Later that day, everyone attributes Michael’s ever-present smile – unfaltering even in the face of fatigue, hunger, boredom and endless (and all-too often inane) questions – to his successes.  
  
They’re only half-right.  
  
\---  
  
The other half is remembering what  _making up for lost time_ entailed.   
  
(How Ryan surprised him in the shower after getting back, too eager to wait till he finished up. His laugh and how he sounded when he said,  _Thought we could save some time, Mike. And, you know, water_.   
  
The feel of Ryan’s hands, the sight of him dropping to his knees.  _Only fair after 8 golds_  with a smirk and a sly look up from under his eyelashes. The warmth of Ryan’s mouth around him, how those golden curls felt when Michael fisted his hands in them.   
  
Later, how it felt when Ryan finally pushed into him after so fucking long. How he had to bite down to stifle a groan because you can hear  _everything_ through the walls in the Olympic Village.  
  
How it felt so good Michael stopped caring who heard pretty fucking quickly.)  
  
And anticipating the way he’ll spend his night.  
  
\---  
  
Michael wakes up the next morning hoping to God yesterday was all a dream – a nightmare, to be precise – but peeking into the kids’ rooms and seeing the still-carefully-made beds – the beds their lovable terrors didn’t get to sleep in last night – gives the lie to that.   
  
He’s no more prepared for what’s waiting for him downstairs.   
  
Ryan’s up, pacing the length of the kitchen when Michael walks in.  
  
(Ryan’s not a pacer.)  
  
The coffee cup on the island is drained, but the cereal’s untouched – and it’s been a while, if the sogginess of the Cheerios is any indication.  
  
“I was waiting for you.”  
  
Waiting for him? Why? “I – sorry. It’s early.”  
  
“Yeah, well, couldn’t sleep. Surprised you could.”  
  
Not really. It was more that the exhaustion of his body won out over his racing brain, but that took hours. Michael hadn’t actually gotten much sleep at all. He makes a noncommittal noise and goes over to the coffee maker, only to find there’s no more coffee.  
  
Now the pacing makes a lot more sense.  
  
“So I was wondering . . .”   
  
Michael waits, but Ryan doesn’t say anything. “Wondering what?”  
  
“What your plan was. Were you going to divorce me and ride off into the fucking sunset with  _Mary_?”  
  
Was he  _what_? Where was that coming – “No! Why – why would you even think that?”  
  
“I mean, you seemed to know an awful lot about what would happen if Mary divorced . . . what’s-his-name. Jack? And what he’d do if he found out his wife was sleeping with another man, and about what that would mean for . . . Ella.”   
  
“Because she talked about it –”  
  
“Because obviously you wanted –”   
  
“No! I never –” God, he really, really, really  _never_  – why would Ryan –   
  
“Did it ever cross your mind – just once, just for a second – to think what  _I’d_ do, that  _I_ might leave  _you_? Or maybe the settlement  _I_  could get if  _we_  divorced? Since you were talking up your fucking  _net worth_  yesterday, I guess you know who’d be taking who to the cleaners.”   
  
 _If_ we _divorced?_  
  
If  _we_  divorced _?_  
  
“Ry –”  
  
“But you know what? Fuck the money because I don’t need a dime of yours. Did it cross your mind that  _I_  might – no, that I  _would_  – go for full custody of  _our_ kids if  _we_  split up?”  
  
His chest feels tight, he – “I –”  
  
“Speaking of –”  
  
“Speaking of what?” A  _divorce_? He can’t –  
  
“What’s next?”  
  
What’s next? What is Ryan talking about? Fuck, what is he talking about? “What’s next?” Michael echoes dumbly.  
  
“What’s next? What’ll it be next month? What about next year?”  
  
“What do you mean?” He’s –   
  
“First you cheated on me. I found out and had to leave. I had to move out, move away. Then the whole world found out you cheated on me. So then we had to send  _our kids_ – who’ve done nothing, _nothing_! – away.”   
  
Fuck if that isn’t the worst – “I –”  
  
“But you – you always get to stay.”   
  
Does Ryan – does Ryan want him to  _leave_? God – he – fuck – his legs feel like – “Ryan –”  
  
“I’m not fucking done, Michael! Even though you’re the one that fucked up, you get to stay! It’s not fair. It’s not fair that this shit just keeps going and going and going. It’s not fair – it’s the most  _not fair_  – that Ollie and Lo got dragged into it. So fuck you, you don’t get to interrupt me, you don’t get to say anything, because look what you’ve fucking done to us!”  
  
It’s true, it’s true, it’s  _true_ but . . . “Do you think I would’ve done what I did if I stopped and thought – if I . . . could’ve guessed what would happen?”  
  
“So it’s  _OK_ , is what you’re saying? You cheated, which was bad, but because you didn’t really think about it and it just got out of hand, it’s OK? It’s OK because you didn’t do it on purpose, because you didn’t  _think_?” Ryan asks disbelievingly.   
  
“It’s not OK, it’s just –”  
  
“THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT FUCKING HAPPENED WITH FUCKING ISTANBUL! Except  _you_ could’ve done something,  _you_  could’ve said something because what the hell was I supposed to do about you being angry about Istanbul when you didn’t  _tell me_? What was I supposed to do about the fucking  _affair_  I didn’t know about? But all you did was punish me for fucking  _Istanbul_  and I  _keep_  getting punished for it and it’s never gonna stop because no matter how many times you apologize, I can’t fucking  _forget_  everything that’s happened, OK?”   
  
Ryan – he –  _fuck_  –  
  
Ryan takes a shaky breath. “I’m trying – I  _tried_  – to forgive it, not bring it up because I  _promised_ , but I can’t fucking  _forget it_ , especially now that the whole fucking world knows. I can’t fucking  _forget it_ because I couldn’t sleep all night and even if I could, everything would be exactly the same and the kids still wouldn’t be here and –”   
  
His apologies may be completely useless, Michael has to because he – “I’m s –”  
  
“No. I just – I can’t right now. I can’t be here. With you. This is too – I just – I’m going . . . I’m gonna see my mother.”  
  
Even though his heart feels like it’s dropped to his shoes, Michael interjects then, knowing Ryan isn’t thinking terribly clearly and he’ll regret it later if he brings the whole house of cards down. “But the paps –”   
  
“At – I don’t know – Not here. Or there. At the house. It’s – I’m not an idiot. Don’t fucking patronize me.”  
  
“I’m not –”  
  
“I didn’t want to get the kids out of here to lead the paps right to them.”  
  
“But –”  
  
“I’ll figure it out,” Ryan finishes over his shoulder as he walks out of the kitchen.

In that moment, Michael hates being the one who gets to stay.


	27. 'Cause They Took Your Loved Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It may be hard to know what you want right now, but when you figure that out, you have to choose that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from “What the Water Gave Me” by Florence + the Machine. Many thanks to mugglemiranda and redjacket. And many thanks to those of you reading. I always appreciate feedback, it helps me write!

It’s awful, looking at those stupid “Hot to Trot . . . or Not” type pictures – the ones that are like  _are these people still into each other_? Do they still  _love_  each other? – and see how far back people say the deep-freeze in their marriage extends. There’s the obvious – that movie premiere with the kids and the Golden Goggles, his own dead-behind-the-eyes smiles in those photos. But the tension in Michael’s face, in the set of his shoulders, has been there much longer than that.  
  
Ryan feels so, so stupid for not noticing. Between that and everything else he sees and thinking about the kids and rehashing everything that’s happened, he can’t sleep a wink.  
  
\---  
  
 _But . . . she wouldn’t need it anyway – her husband’s a big shot at Barclays. Not exactly . . . rolling in it, like, you know, us, but TMZ’s money isn’t likely to turn her head. She’d probably get more in a divorce settlement even, and God knows publicizing . . . an affair wouldn’t help with that. Anyway, if he – Jack – found out, he’d leave her and try to get custody of Ella and that’s the last thing –_  
  
“So what was your plan? Were you going to divorce me and ride off into the fucking sunset with  _Mary_?”  
  
“No! Why – why would you even think that?”  
  
“I mean, you seemed to know an awful lot about what would happen if Mary divorced . . . what’s-his-name,” he continues deliberately, waiting to see if Michael will correct him. “Jack? And what he’d do if he found out his wife was sleeping with another man, and about what that would mean for . . . Ella.”   
  
“Because she talked about it –”  
  
“Because obviously you wanted –”  
  
“No! I never –”  
  
“Did it ever cross your mind – just once, just for a second – to think what  _I’d_ do, that  _I_ might leave  _you_? Or maybe the settlement  _I_  could get if  _we_  divorced? Since you were talking up your fucking  _net worth_  yesterday, I guess you know who’d be taking who to the cleaners.”   
  
“Ry –”  
  
“But you know what? Fuck the money because I don’t need a dime of yours. Did it cross your mind that  _I_  might – no, that I  _would_  – go for full custody of  _our_ kids if  _we_  split up?” Michael can keep every damn penny if he wants, but he sure as hell wouldn’t get to keep their kids from him.  
  
It’s awful and horrible of him, but he can’t pretend he doesn’t get some satisfaction from the way that makes the blood drain from Michael’s face. He deserves it. He deserves it for everything he’s done. “Speaking of –”  
  
“Speaking of what?”   
  
“What’s next?”  
  
“What’s next?” Michael repeats.  
  
“What’s next? What’ll it be next month? What about next year?”  
  
“What do you mean?” Michael asks. Christ, can’t Michael just let him fucking  _talk_?  
  
“First you cheated on me. I found out and had to leave. I had to move out, move away.” Because there was no way he could’ve stayed after that; it was everything he could see, even when he closed his eyes, sometimes even when he slept. Plus the kids – “Then the whole world found out you cheated on me. So then we had to send  _our kids_ – who, unlike us, have done nothing, _nothing_! – away.”   
  
“I –”  
  
He cuts Michael off. “But you – you always get to stay.”   
  
“Ryan –”  
  
Michael needs to stop interrupting him, stop repeating his words back at him, stop asking stupid questions like  _What do you mean?_ , stop saying his fucking name like he has a right. He needs to fucking  _stop_. “I’m not fucking done, Michael! Even though you fucked up, you get to stay! It’s not fair. It’s not fair that this shit just keeps going and going and going. It’s not fair – it’s the most  _not fair_  – that Ollie and Lo got dragged into it. So fuck you, you don’t get to interrupt me, you don’t get to say anything, because look what you’ve fucking done to us!”  
  
It feels good – in the worst way – to tell Michael off. But then –  
  
“Do you think I would’ve done what I did if I stopped and thought – if I . . . could’ve guessed what would happen?”  
  
That, that is fucking  _it_. “So it’s  _OK_ , is what you’re saying? You cheated, which was bad, but because you didn’t really think about it and it just got out of hand, it’s OK? It’s OK because you didn’t do it on purpose, because you didn’t  _think_?”   
  
“It’s not OK, it’s just –”  
  
And that’s when he really loses it. Completely. Because Jesus, fuck, the  _nerve_  after shitting all over  _his_  impulse move. “THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT FUCKING HAPPENED WITH FUCKING ISTANBUL! Except  _you_ could’ve done something,  _you_  could’ve said something because what the hell was I supposed to do about you being angry about Istanbul when you didn’t tell me? What was I supposed to do about the fucking  _affair_  I didn’t know about? But all you did was punish me for it and I  _keep_  getting punished for it, because no matter how many times you apologize, I can’t fucking  _forget_  everything that’s happened, OK?”   
  
Ryan breathes in deep, because he’s having a hard time getting enough air in his lungs just then. “I’m trying – I  _tried_  – to forgive it, not to bring it up because I  _promised_ , but I can’t fucking  _forget it_ , especially now that the whole fucking world knows. I can’t fucking  _forget it_ because I couldn’t sleep all night and even if I could, everything would be exactly the same and the kids still wouldn’t be here and –”   
  
“I’m s –”  
  
It’s too much. So he interrupts again, even if he has no idea what he’s about to say. “I just . . . I can’t right now. I can’t be here. With you. This is too – I just – I’m going to see my mother.”  
  
“But the paps –”   
  
He hadn’t thought about – but he wasn’t going to do anything stupid, fuck. “At – I don’t know –Not here. Or there. At the house. It’s – I’m not an idiot. Don’t fucking patronize me.”  
  
“I’m not –” Sure, Michael. Sure.  
  
“I didn’t want to get the kids out of here to lead the paps right to them.”  
  
“But –”  
  
“I’ll figure it out.”  
  
He needs to get the fuck out of here.  
  
Case closed.  
  
\---  
  
“Just, uh, stay as long as you want, man. We won’t come back until you’re done with your mom. Just call me whenever,” Nathan says, leaving Ryan in his bedroom.   
  
It’s kind of crazy, how fucking secretive they’re being over every little thing, but how would Lo and Ollie feel if, at school tomorrow, Charlie mentions that he saw Ryan at his house? While Liz was babysitting them at the rental? So Ryan won’t come out until Nathan’s left with Charlie.  
  
Instead of spending the day studying at home, Nathan’s going to study . . . whatever it is you study your second year of med school at the park with Charlie. Or maybe it was a diner. (Honestly, he can’t even remember.)   
  
Because Nathan has finals right now.  
  
(Fuck, they’re making everything complicated for everybody they know.   
  
Fuck him and Michael both.)  
  
And he waits.  
  
\---  
  
Ryan manages to forget it all for a couple moments when he opens the door for his mother.  
  
The door’s barely shut before she throws her arms around him, hugging him with all her strength. “Oh, my boy.”  
  
“I’m so glad you’re here, Mom,” he whispers.   
  
After possibly the longest and definitely the most-needed hug he’s ever gotten, his mother pulls away to ask if he’s eaten.   
  
“I – no, I wasn’t hungry.”  
  
She sighs, but doesn’t look surprised. “Well you should.”  
  
“Mom, you can’t just raid the fridge, Nathan –”  
  
“He’s such a sweet boy –” If laughing weren’t just about the last thing he feels like doing, he’d laugh because he wonders, not for the first time, how long “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind us using some plates and cutlery –”  
  
“Ma, we can’t stay that long, he has –”  
  
“That’s why I made plenty. To say thank you and so he won’t have to bother after studying.” It turns out she busied herself cooking while she waited for Elizabeth to arrive and she unpacks it all carefully as soon as she walks into the kitchen, putting an alarming number of carefully-labeled Tupperware containers in Nathan’s freezer and fridge and leaving a couple on the counter.   
  
She can’t have made that all in a couple hours. “Mom, how did –”  
  
“I knew I wasn’t going to be able to sleep last night, so I asked Conor to run out and get some groceries for me so I could make myself useful. Some of that’s for you to take home.”  
  
“Mom, you shouldn’t have –”  
  
“I gave him the money of course, even though he didn’t want to take it.”  
  
“That’s not –”  
  
“Make yourself useful, set the table.” Mom may be a sweetheart, but she’s a steamroller when she wants to be.  
  
“ _Ma_  –”  
  
“ _Ryan Steven_ ,” she returns in the same tone.  
  
“Yes, ma’am.” It takes him a little to figure out where Nathan keeps everything, but he does.    
  
“What do you want to eat? I made bistec, I brought croquetas –”  
  
“When’d you have time to make  _croquetas_?”  
  
“At Devon’s. I brought them with me, I figured –”  
  
Another reason for Devon to be mad at him. “Mom –”  
  
“I left plenty. I’m not sure they could’ve fit another thing in the fridge, to be honest. I left them in very good shape, so don’t worry about that.”  
  
“How are they?” he asks instead, figuring it might be nice to talk about something pleasant for a change.  
  
She smiles a little, for the first time all day. “They’re good. Jana’s just . . . very happy. Which is good, you know, because you always worry about how new moms feel at first, it’s a lot, it can be really overwhelming. And Gianna – well, I know you’ve gotten pictures, but she’s even cuter in person. So sweet.”  
  
“What about at night?” he asks, knowing full well how sweet Lo looked by day and how terrible she was to put to sleep. And Gianna resembles her older cousin enough that he has to w –   
  
“Sleeps like an angel.”  
  
“Lucky Dev.”  
  
“Speaking of your brother –”  
  
“Ma –”  
  
“Ryan, I don’t know why you’ve gotten it into your head that he’s angry with you. Was he thrilled you didn’t go see Gianna right away? No. The flu was understandable; you couldn’t travel with that and none of us would want to risk getting her sick. The press conference – which, by the way, is –”  
  
“Later, Mom. Later.”  
  
She sighs, this time more an annoyed huff than a sad one. “OK. But he’s not. He’s worried; he said he’s tried calling and texting, too, and you haven’t –”  
  
He hadn’t noticed, but he probably would’ve ignored it even if it was Devon. “Unless it’s you or anybody dealing with the kids, I’m not bothering right now. And like, for you all, I put like special ringtones and stuff. (Again with the keeping busy thing.) Erika and – I just, I don’t wanna have to talk about this to anybody else. Not even Dev –” That doesn’t mean he’s not relieved to hear that Devon’s maybe not really mad at him. “But . . . thanks for telling me.”  
  
She purses her lips, but all she says is “Of course, honey.” She pauses. “So how about something to eat?”  
  
It looks good – it always does – but he just has no interest in it. “The bistec, I think, but I’m . . . like, really, I’m not hungry. Can we wait on the food?”  
  
“OK,” Mom gives in. “So?”  
  
“Let’s sit in the living room.”  
  
\---  
  
They sit silently for a long time.   
  
Well, more like he lies on the couch, his head in his mother’s lap, like when he was a little kid, as she cards her fingers through his hair.  
  
Finally, Mom speaks. “Honey, I’m . . . I’m so sorry this is happening to you. I know – I know there’s so much going on here that I don’t know about, that I absolutely hope you know you can tell me about, but even if you don’t . . . most all, I want you to – you just . . . you have to know that you have to . . . you have to be happy. You – you’ve had to deal with so much, you’ve had your whole world turned upside down. It may be hard to know what you want right now, but when you figure that out, you have to choose that. It’s not selfish. I’m not telling you that because I’m your mom. I’m telling you because it’s true.”  
  
He thinks about it, he really does, as he looks up at the ceiling. But when he finally does say something, it has to seem completely out of the blue to her. Because it does to him, too. “Why’d you and Dad split up?”  
  
She’s obviously taken aback. “That was different.”  
  
“Yeah, I know, there wasn’t adultery involved,” he retorts.  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“I know – I’m sorry. I’m being a jerk.” Jesus, his life is a mess, but can’t he get through two minutes without antagonizing his own  _mother_?  
  
“It’s – everyone acts strangely when they’re in such difficult situations. But you’re – who’ve you been talking to about this?”  
  
“No one.”  
  
“I won’t be upset if you’ve confided in somebody, you’re a grown man. I understand this is a hard thing to talk to me about –”  
  
“No, Ma, really. Nobody. Not till now.”  
  
“Oh  _honey_.” She just runs a hand over his forehead like she did when he was small. It always relaxed him.   
  
“I just – we – I didn’t want  _this_  to happen.”  
  
“All this – how long did you know about this before it came out?”  
  
“I moved out after.”  _Months_.  
  
She’s silent for a long time after that. “You wanted to know about your father and me.”  
  
“Why, then?”  
  
“I just – you all seemed to be doing well, on your way in life. Your father and I – we made a good life together, we raised you all to be good people, but we just – we weren’t in love anymore. And we were raised to think that if you were married to a good person and you had children together, you kept your family together.”   
  
(Before . . . everything, they had a good life. He hopes Ollie and Lo will grow up to be good people, will do everything in his power to make that happen.  
  
But are he and Michael good people?  
  
More importantly, do they even still love each other?   
  
In any way, at all?)  
  
“But that’s not everything. You can’t – you can only be so useful to your children when you’re not living your life honestly, when you’re not being true to yourself. It took a long, long time for me to see that. And I – I didn’t want to disappoint your nana. That’s not to say – when Devon – I wondered then. I wondered a lot if I did the right thing, if maybe that wouldn’t have happened if we’d kept it together. I felt selfish but . . . it’s not. You’re all grown now – even Brandon’s flown the coop with school and everything. What would your father and I be doing now that it would just be us?  
  
That’s not to say – we had many happy years together. We raised a wonderful family and we did love each other. But some things don’t last forever and it – it doesn’t help to linger over them and make the end more painful.”  
  
( _But some things don’t last forever and it – it doesn’t help to linger over them and make the end more painful._  
  
Is that what they’re doing by trying to ride this out?)  
  
“You – you’re a wonderful father. And Michael – however angry I am at him, however much just the thought of him makes me see red right now – well . . . even I know he loves Ollie and Lo very much.”   
  
That not even – that  _especially_ – Ryan can’t deny. Even now.  
  
“It would be hard, but they’d be fine. You’d see to that. You both would. So don’t – don’t stay for them. In the long run, it would only hurt them.”  
  
He can’t help but . . . not entirely agree. “But –” He doesn’t know how to say it without offending his mother. He’s grateful he’s lying down so it’s physically impossible to look her in the eye.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I – Please don’t be mad.”  
  
“I won’t be,” she promises, sounding confused.  
  
“I can’t speak for Kris and Megan and Devon and Bran, but . . . um, I – I think I might’ve been happier if you and Dad had stayed together.” His mother doesn’t tense like he expects her to. She’s still listening. “Not like, it would’ve made my life tons better. But um, what’s that saying?  _Ignorance is . . . bliss_. Yeah, that’s it. I . . . I wouldn’t wonder.”  
  
“About what?” She doesn’t sound mad, just more confused.  
  
“If it . . . was my fault. Partly, at least.”  
  
“If it was – how could it  _possibly_  be your fault?”  _Now_  she maybe sounds a little bit mad.   
  
“You know,  _Raising an Olympian_.”  
  
“Are you talking in capitals right now?”   
  
“Yeah. And italics.”  
  
“Hmm, the big guns. I see.” She nudges him a little. “Can you sit up? I want you to look at me, see my face when I say this.” Once he does, she keeps talking, slowly. “ _It was not your fault._ Your sisters and Devon may not have made it to the Olympics, but they swam too and this certainly had nothing to do with them either. If anything, that was something your father and I shared and loved and that made us so proud. Whatever’s happened since, I’m so happy we got to share Athens and Beijing and so many of your other big meets with you, together. And London and Rio and everything else even when we weren’t together.”  
  
“Did you stay longer for us?” ( _For me?_ )  
  
“I just didn’t – I don’t think either of us considered it when you kids were younger. It didn’t cross my mind. But I would’ve. And I think he would’ve too. And it would’ve been wrong. I don’t want that for you.”  
  
“Ollie and Lo don’t deserve to deal with a divorce,” he replies reflexively.  
  
She tenses then. “Call me crazy, but are you saying you did?”  
  
“I –”  
  
His mother interprets his too-long pause as agreement and her eyes taken on an over-bright sheen. “What is – in what universe does that make sense?” He hates himself for upsetting her. He doesn’t – “You are – you’re everything good and kind and loving and if people actually got what they deserved in this world, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now.”  
  
“Mom, don’t – don’t cry, please.” He puts an arm around her, hoping to make it a little bit better.  
  
She tips her chin up to look at him. “I just –”  
  
“It’s not that, I swear. I just – I don’t want  _that_  for  _them_ ,” he finishes firmly, or else she’ll spend the rest of his time here trying to talk him up to himself.  
  
His mother’s eyes are filled with tears that have yet to fall. “So you think it’s better they grow up with parents stuck in an unhappy marriage for their sake, trying to make something broken work like it’s whole? Do you want to be those people who divorce when the kids are . . . I don’t know, freshmen in college and drop the bomb on them during Thanksgiving break so they can barely function during finals? You told me that happened to one of your teammates, remember?”  
  
“It scared me,” Ryan admits.  
  
“Exactly. Do you want  _that_  for your children? Having to wonder if you stayed for them? Except in your case it would be true.”  
  
Ryan blinks and looks away, closing his eyes. When he opens them, he focuses on the scratch on the coffee table. It takes an eternity for him to look at his mother again. He folds his hands, feeling the tension down to his fingertips.   
  
“Is it wrong for me to still want to be with him?” he asks abruptly.  
  
“For yourself?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Honestly?”  
  
“Yes. I hate myself for it, after what he did. But yes.”  
  
“Oh honey, don’t. If – if that’s what will make  _you_  happy, really . . . but you – you’re so unhappy now,” she sighs, rubbing his arm.  
  
“Well, America finding out you got cheated on is pretty shitty, Mom,” he says quietly.  
  
“Is that something – is that something you  _want_  to move past?”  
  
“I’d like not to remember it every waking minute.” That would be a start.  
  
“That’s not what I mean. Move past  _together_.”  
  
He thinks before answering, even if deep down he’s known the answer all along. “Yeah. I would. But I don’t know – I don’t know how, I don’t know if I can. I mean, I haven’t.”  
  
“But you want to.”  
  
He nods.  
  
“Try. If that doesn’t work, try again. Try three or four or however many times are necessary. But really, really  _try_.”  
  
“Isn’t it supposed to be easy – well, not easy now, I guess – but not so  _hard_  if it’s right?”  
  
“That’s not real life. Sometimes you just need to cut your losses, but if you want to stay together, you need to do it right and you need to fight to get it right because it’s not going to come easily. But  _he_  needs to fight for it too.”  
  
Ryan feels a little bit guilty for not telling his mother that Michael  _has_  been fighting to fix things.   
  
But then that resentful little voice in the back of Ryan’s mind reminds him about Thanksgiving and he feels a little bit less guilty, even as he knows it’s immature of him and unhelpful in his current situation and tries his hardest to shut the stupid little voice up.   
  
He doesn’t tell his mother any of that. Instead, all he asks is, “ _He_? What is he, like the Dark Lord? You know, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? You-Know-Who?”  
  
Mom looks at him like he’s insane.  
  
“ _Harry Potter_ , Ma.”   
  
“This is serious.” But Ryan’s relieved to see she’s not teary-eyed anymore. “If you want this, you need to try. Hard. If it still doesn’t work, then maybe you both need to go your separate ways.”  
  
His own fight begins and ends with his decision to come back home and stay there. Michael’s reaching out, and Ryan just hasn’t been able to meet him halfway.  
  
But something has to give or things will – impossible at it seems right now – just keep getting worse and worse and he doesn’t think either of them could handle that at this point.   
  
\---  
  
Ryan’s on the way to his room – he really needs to lie down – when he spots the light on in Lo’s room. Why –   
  
Michael’s sitting on the bed with the empty laundry basket next to him, staring off into space.  
  
Ryan clears his throat. “Michael –”  
  
Michael blinks and turns to look at him. “Do you . . . want me to leave?”  
  
That’s when he notices the duffel on the floor by Michael’s feet.


	28. I Let the Water Take Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you want me to leave?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from a lyric from “What the Water Gave Me” by Florence + the Machine. Sorry for the months-long delay! Thanks to mugglemiranda for the bucket-loads of encouragement.

Shortly after Ryan leaves, Erika arrives on their doorstep.  
  
The moment Michael sees her, he knows.  
  
 _What a story, Michael . . . Ryan Lochte retires two years before the next Olympiad, when he’s within striking distance of the all-time Olympic medal record – held by his husband, funnily enough – because_ his husband had an affair _._   _TMZ are idiots, getting out ahead of us like they did. This could’ve been the story of the_ year _if they’d played their cards right._  
  
 _What do you mean_ could’ve been _?_  
  
And the moment he’s closed the door behind her, he tells her so.  
  
“You – when you said this  _could’ve been_  the biggest story of the year, you didn’t mean because TMZ broke this ahead of the retirement announcement, did you? You meant that there wouldn’t  _be_  a retirement announcement because you were going to talk him out of it.”  
  
“Ryan’s a grown man, he –”  
  
“ _That_ was your plan. Touché, Erika, well-played.”  
  
“All I did was ask Ryan to consider his own interests first for a change.”  
  
“All you  _did_ was manipulate him in the middle of a crisis, when he’s vul –”  
  
“No, again, all I did was tell him to take a step back and think about the bigger picture and not let this very difficult situation – caused by  _you_ , by the way – overwhelm him into making hasty decisions.”  
  
“Retiring wasn’t a hasty decision, he wanted to do that before any of this –”  
  
“ _Wanted_  is the operative – and not just inaccurate, but downright  _false_  word in that sentence, Michael. Ryan  _wanted_ to keep swimming; Ryan  _wanted_ to try for Istanbul.  _Ryan_  and  _wanted_  and  _retirement_  don’t belong in the same sentence. Maybe he wanted to do that before the story came out, but I doubt he wanted to do that before you had an affair and blamed it on Istanbul.”  
  
“Erika, it’s our marriage and our business, so –”  
  
“It may be your marriage and your business, but it’s also your – your, not Ryan’s,  _your_  – mess and  _I’m_ the one stuck cleaning it up!”  
  
“You get paid to –”  
  
“I get paid by  _Ryan_. My client is  _Ryan_. My responsibility is to Ryan and my  _concern_  is for Ryan. But you’re the one that messed up and your agent is off God-knows-where and all he tells me is – and I quote, because that  _. . ._ that  _jerk_!  _This isn’t the DUI or the bong pictures. Alleged affairs are small potatoes._ Small potatoes! And that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it was:  _We don’t really need to protect a brand in the same way we did ten or six years ago._  AKA, none of this matters in Peter-land because you’re retired and it’s Ryan’s brand you’re merrily destroying! Not to mention his  _life_! You messed up and Ryan pays the consequences because you’re done and he’s not, even if you want him to be! And that’s probably what Peter wants in the first place!”  
  
 _Alleged affairs are small potatoes._ What the – she must be fucking with him. Anyway, Peter is – “What he – are you fucking serious right –”  
  
“Yes, I’m  _fucking serious_  because basically? If Ryan –”  
  
“He’s my husband, do you really think –”  
  
“I  _do_  think! I do. I thought you wouldn’t mess things up for him  _because_  you’re married. And have children together. But then you did. And in doing that, you made your bed. Now –”  
  
She – fuck. He’s fucked up and he deserves to be judged, but not by her, so she can get the fuck out. “My bed, in my house, which I want you out of until  _your_ client gets back because you don’t get to talk to me like that under  _my_ roof, remember?  _You_ don’t get to judge me, Erika.”  
  
Erika clenches her fists at her sides, lips pressed into the thinnest of lines, but turns to leave without another word.  
  
No matter how hollow a victory it is, Michael takes tremendous satisfaction in slamming the door behind her.  
  
\---  
  
 _You always get to stay._  
  
How did it come to this?  
  
How did  _they_  come to this?  
  
\---  
  
When Peter calls again, Michael has some questions to ask him. “I have to ask you: Erika said some things and I’m sure they were at least embellished or complete BS, so I want your side of the story.”  
  
“Well . . . all right.” Peter sounds surprised. “I’ll set the record straight.”  
  
“She said you said alleged affairs are small potatoes.”  
  
“That’s not . . . untrue. But it has to be put in context: it’s the sort of thing that’s . . . fairly common. These kinds of allegations – true or not – happen all the time. That was my point. But –”  
  
Michael tries to stay calm, but he can’t help the edge of anger in his voice because for the first time he wonders if maybe Peter isn’t taking this seriously enough. “I understand that, but it’s not small potatoes to me. It’s –”  
  
“That’s what I was about to say. I know it isn’t. It’s your life, it’s your family. I understand that, but we’ve got that on the one hand and your . . . image and brand on the other hand. Those are two distinct things. Your family can get through this even if your image takes a hit. But we can’t go crazy because otherwise we fan the flames and it takes longer to make this all go away and that makes things worse for all of you. It’s my job to keep us sane and it’s in your best interest to stay so. You understand that, don’t you?”  
  
“Yes but –”  
  
“We have to stay calm. That’s the best we can do to limit the damage unless anything changes.”  
  
“I know but –” Michael takes a deep breath. Peter’s right. About staying calm. He is. “Well, the other thing. About the brand and all that. I guess – Erika seemed to have it in her head that, like, I don’t know, you and I wanted to destroy Ryan’s . . . brand, which is ridiculous. Like she got that all from you . . . supposedly saying something about not needing to protect mine as much anymore.”  
  
“I did say that.”  
  
“But –”  
  
“Erika’s goals and constraints in this situation are different from mine. And if it makes her angry that I . . . didn’t hesitate to say that to –” Peter clears his throat “– contextualize my strategy, well that’s her problem.”  
  
“But, like, you know I don’t want –”  
  
“Erika has a rather inflated idea of Ryan as an athlete and a . . . brand.”  
  
Michael may disagree with Erika on a lot of things, but in this case . . . “Seriously? Now’s not the time to take potshots at –”  
  
“Let me finish, Michael. I don’t mean any disrespect. I’m not disputing the fact that he’s excellent at what he does. But that doesn’t change . . . several things. To start, the Istanbul hype is overblown. And I think Erika, rather than just harnessing it and building it up further . . . well, it seems like she’s actually bought into it more than she ought to. And so she feels . . . doubly threatened. Because this sort of personal problem is bad enough, but this sort of personal problem evolving into a public scandal . . . well, not only is it not the sort of press you want, but the combination of the problem itself and any ensuing scandal also has the effect of taking his eyes off the prize.”   
  
Right. He hadn’t mentioned the whole  _Ryan’s retiring_  thing. Except he’s not anymore anyway.  
  
“Especially for someone who’s not nearly as . . . single-minded as you were. Which, honestly, makes it all the more impressive that he’s the only person likely even to  _approach_  anything you did anytime soon,” Peter adds. “Well, besides Missy of course –” (unsurprisingly, also a company client) “who will probably manage to come even closer. Though of course, for all that Erika’s worked herself up over it, it doesn’t –”  
  
“It doesn’t what?”  
  
“It doesn’t really matter, not just because Ryan can’t exceed what you’ve done, but because even if he did, no one would care about him or Missy or any other swimmers if it weren’t for you. Honestly, Erika wouldn’t have much of a job if not for that.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Well, Ryan might’ve gotten a bit further than most on his looks, but that’s about it.”  
  
 _It doesn’t really matter, not just because Ryan can’t exceed what you’ve done, but because even if he did, no one would care about him or Missy or any other swimmers if it weren’t for you._  
  
Peter’s never kissed his ass. Peter’s never lied to him to protect his ego. Peter’s never hesitated to criticize him to make him better (a big part of the reason he and Bob get on so well). Peter is simply giving him a matter-of-fact professional assessment of his . . . impact. Implied is how his impact can’t really be diminished even if someone were to exceed one of his greatest accomplishments.  
  
Even if that’s what he’s wondered in the back of his mind as time wore on. The thought that he might stop mattering, that all the years of his life spent a slave to the pool – delaying  _real_ life – would mean less and eventually nothing. Because while he feels like that shouldn’t matter to him – that for a long time it  _didn’t_  – the fact remains that it does.  
  
“They’d be forgotten within months of the Games if you hadn’t made people care about swimming in the first place. And that,  _that’s_ forever. Hell, no one even cared about the overall medal count; no one remembered Larisa Latynina’s name until you came along.”  
  
 _The world would forget them within months of the Games if you hadn’t made people care about swimming in the first place. And that, that’s forever._  
  
“Anyway, nobody’s topped 8 golds. I don’t see it happening anytime soon, because if Missy didn’t manage it in Rio, well, I’m not sure it’s likelier to happen four years later. And there’s nobody active who can touch her. And frankly, Beijing . . . that was something else.  _You’re_ something else. I don’t think we’ll ever see the like again.”  
  
 _Beijing . . . that was something else._ You’re _something else._   _I don’t think we’ll ever see the like again._  
  
“All that – not just the fact that you’re retired – is why I won’t get hysterical about your brand unless we lose our heads and muck everything up like Erika would have us do.”   
  
Michael can’t . . . he can’t breathe.  
  
He might not have listened, might not have agreed, but right then he can’t help but wonder how different things would be if he’d gotten out of his own head, if he’d gotten his head out of his  _ass_  and actually said anything to anybody that would’ve provoked this kind of response.  
  
It wasn’t the only thing that bothered him, but it was the one that might’ve untangled the ball of yarn enough for him to actually talk. If he hadn’t felt a little threatened and so  _petty_ for feeling threatened (instead of just – if not happy – proud of and happy  _for_ Ryan; he did feel those things, especially in Rio, just not exclusively or enough _after_ ) and so afraid to admit to that pettiness for fear Ryan would never look at him the same way again, he might’ve actually been able to talk about the rest of it – about wanting a life that didn’t revolve around swimming and about wanting to be more . . . normal (except he wonders now if he really did – or how he did – want those things), about . . . just about the fact that he was angry that Ryan had made such a major move that affected not just him, but all of them, without once mentioning he’d been considering it.   
  
Yeah, Rio was a whirlwind – the Olympics always are – but even for one of the big names, there’s a little bit of a breather. Ryan could’ve just . . . but he didn’t. Michael had a right to be angry about it. A right not to want four years of the same. He did. It was just . . . the other stuff that made it feel invalid and wrong.   
  
But in the end, four more years didn’t have to be such a burden. They weren’t so bad . . . In fact, one of the bad things was not having enough to occupy his time, if anything. Because he wasn’t at the pool anymore. And yeah, it was hard at first when he pushed their going it alone, sans nanny. But the kids eventually went off to Pre-K, then kindergarten this year and suddenly there were an awful lot of hours where he was the only one home. And the foundation and clinics and all that only took up so much time.   
  
He finds it hard to open up, but usually, with Ryan, it’s . . . easier when he does. Ryan doesn’t judge. He doesn’t push; he just listens. He can be . . . surprisingly patient.   
  
And yet, Michael maybe . . . forgot that side of him or chose not to trust in that. Or maybe he expected Ryan to just  _know_. Or maybe talked himself into thinking that Ryan  _did_ know and just didn’t care.   
  
So instead of talking, he just made it all worse, saying nothing at all, because Ryan still found out a lot of what he thought and felt in the end – and found it out after being betrayed and humiliated and just . . . damaged.  
  
 _Whatever this – whatever happens now, it’s gonna be different._ I’m _different._  
  
 _Ryan is certainly not the same._  
  
And their kids and their families and their friends – hell, even the people that work with and for them – have all gotten dragged into it.    
  
He ruined everything. For nothing.   
  
 _Nothing_.   
  
\---  
  
Michael’s been sitting there for minutes . . . hours . . .  _years_  when he gets up, shaking his head.  
  
He has to do something, anything.   
  
There’s the kids’ laundry. Not like anybody else will be doing it any time soon. Ollie’s first.   
  
Loading the dishwasher.  
  
And cleaning the counter. The kitchen table.  
  
Then Lo’s, even though the kids might not be using any of it anytime soon.  
  
Letting the dogs out in the yard. They’ll avoid walking them outside their actual property as long as humanly possible. Hopefully the dogs won’t hate them too much over the coming days.   
  
Or, you know, will just take it out on their shoes or something; Ryan probably wouldn’t miss a few pairs. Actually, it’s  _Ryan_. He could stand to lose a few pairs, but he’d sure as hell notice if any suddenly disappeared – except, no, he wouldn’t now because most of them are still in his closet in  _their_  room.  
  
When Michael goes upstairs to put everything away, the twins’ empty rooms somehow feel worse than they did when he first woke up.  
  
He feeds Young Jeezy (Ollie’s bribe iguana from Ryan) and wonders idly if Ollie will spill the beans about Ryan’s opinion of his mother’s sanity – or lack thereof – now that it’s just him and Lo and their Grandma Ike. He probably will.  
  
Michael tries to ignore the lump in his throat, but it only gets worse in Lo’s room, where there’s a copy of their Christmas card taped to the wall. They’d made sure to keep a couple spares when they’d mailed out them out Friday morning and Lo insisted on having one. Ryan put it up when he’d come in to say goodnight, just after Michael had wrapped up that night’s bedtime story.  
  
That’s bad enough. But then there’s remembering what it was like when she was sick, when Ryan was sick after, how everything seemed like it was getting better – at least a little, at least enough that Michael could see light at the end of the tunnel – and then yesterday morning happened.    
  
He just –  
  
 _Everything_.   
  
That’s when he realizes there’s one more thing he needs to do.  
  
\---  
  
He’s at the end of his tether when Ryan walks in, doesn’t even say hello before asking the question that’s plagued him for hours. “Do you . . . want me to leave?”  
  
 _Do you want me to leave?_  
  
 _I – what – no._  
  
Ryan just stares at him.  
  
He has his answer. Though he’s honestly not sure where he’ll go, though practically speaking his best bet is waiting and calling Peter and figuring out a plan – involving lots of subterfuge – to avoid drawing attention to himself. Though drawing attention to himself maybe means no one would bother chasing down their children, means there’d be fewer paps to hound Ryan at home once they really circle their wagons.   
  
He takes a deep breath and hopes his voice will be steadier than his hands. “OK then, I –”   
  
“NO! Fuck, no. No, I don’t.”


	29. damned if do, damned if i don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael’s never been so relieved to have someone cut him off in his entire life.

_December 9, 2018_  
  
 _Oh God. Oh God. Oh God_.   
  
Michael’s never been so relieved to have someone cut him off in his entire life. “Then –”  
  
“Like I just – maybe I shouldn’t have been the one who left. Maybe we should’ve had more time apart before I came back. But I left and Ollie ran away so I came back even though I wasn’t ready but . . . now, after everything? I don’t – like us separating again wouldn’t make me more ready to work it out, you know?”  
  
“I’m – I’m not sure I’m following exac –”  
  
“Everything went to hell yesterday. We’re here. The kids aren’t,  _because_  everything went to hell. And it sucks, but they’re with my mom. That’s as good as it’s gonna get. They’ll be OK. And we – whatever we do, it’s gotta be OK for them –”  
  
“Yeah but –”  
  
“And like, for them to be OK,  _we_ have to be OK. Like, not just  _for_ them. But just to be OK. For us. And we’re not OK.”  
  
“I know we’re not OK. We weren’t OK before this clusterfuck – like it was getting better and maybe we would’ve been OK in the long run, but shit happened. And we’re definitely not OK now that it has. But what – what  _would_  make it OK? Make it better, at least?”  
  
“I – I have no fucking idea. Except – I just –” Ryan takes a deep breath, leans against the doorframe. Finally, after what feels like an eternity – an eternity during which everything that’s ever really mattered hangs in the balance: “Fuck, Mike. I – like, after everything, I still . . . I wanna be with you. I feel – I feel like . . . I shouldn’t. . . . But. But I do.”  
  
He . . . the way Ryan says it hurts, but . . . it’s better than nothing. It’s much better than  _better than nothing_. “Ry –”  
  
Ryan walks away, toward the stairs, so he follows down them, to the living room. Ryan comes to a stop in front of the couch, but doesn’t sit, so he doesn’t either.   
  
Finally, Ryan does look at him. “I just – like . . . you fucking wrecked me and I still wanna be with you. Like, what the fuck is wrong with me?”   
  
Nothing. Nothing. He’s –   
  
“And just like . . . I don’t get it.” Ryan looks away again, sits down before continuing. “Like I . . . I spent a lot of time online yesterday. Like  _a lot_.”  
  
Fuck no. He didn’t. Fuck. The number one rule for people like them –  _Don’t read your own press_ – exists for a reason.  
  
“Somehow I’m still the bad guy. Like, you’re a bad person but I took you back and that makes me a pussy or I pushed you to it because  _I’m_  a bad person, so it’s my fault.”   
  
How is that even – what the hell was Ryan  _reading_? Michael figured any blogger or columnist or Jane Doe with a Twitter account who cared enough to comment would be talking about what an asshole  _he_ is. The fact that there are enough people saying shitty things about  _Ryan_ that it’s actually upset him . . .  _fuck_.  
  
“Or maybe I’m not a bad person; maybe I’m just too fucking stupid for you.”   
  
Michael makes a noise of protest at that, words  _thisclose_ to tumbling out of his mouth. Comments about his supposed lack of intelligence don’t usually get to Ryan. Or any comments, really. He lets most things he hears roll off his back ( _except when it’s people he cares about_ ) and usually doesn’t even bother reading about himself, because that’s just how he is, because  _I have, like, better things to do_. But probably people tweeted at him or mentioned him or and it must all just be too much right now . . .   
  
And Ryan’s on a roll. “You know what somebody wrote?” He still stares straight ahead, not looking Michael in the eye.  “That you’re probably the first person in the history of ever to cheat for ‘intellectual stimulation’ and it got a ton of likes and retweets and ended up on like fucking Jezebel and shit already.”   
  
That, that makes Michael see red. Those fucking –   
  
Another gulp of air. “And the worst part is, you know, maybe they aren’t wrong. I mean, they don’t know it, but your little slam piece is getting a Ph fucking D. Like, I don’t even know. Maybe I’m too something or not enough something else. Because you never use your fucking words, I know  _nothing_. No, wait, I know that I’m a shitty husband and father; you made that pretty fucking clear from the beginning.”  
  
With that, whatever anger he felt at the anonymous assholes making Ryan feel like shit is all on him. “I –”   
  
“That’s it. That’s a lot. So . . .” And then Ryan looks at him again. “What the fuck  _do_  I bring to the table? Why  _didn’t_  you leave? Why don’t you?  Do you want to?”   
  
“No!” Michael shakes his head. “God, of course not.”   
  
He doesn’t even know where to start. But before he can, Ryan slumps down, head in his hands. Michael’s stomach hurts and his heart aches at the sight and in that moment, Ryan’s obvious need for reassurance is more important than his fear of rejection, so Michael sits beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder, knowing this is it. “Because . . .” He closes his eyes for a split second. If he doesn’t put up, doesn’t come up big right now, if he doesn’t open his mouth despite himself and  _speak_ , they won’t be able to recover from this.  
  
And then opens them, hoping to God he doesn’t make it worse. “Because I love you.”  
  
“So . . . why?” Ryan asks hollowly, eyes on the floor.  
  
“I –”  
  
“Why’d you do it?” Pause. “I mean, I asked when I – when I came in and I . . . saw, but everything was so crazy, I couldn’t even  _think_. Mike, I just – if you really –”   
  
It kills him – absolutely fucking  _destroys_  him – that Ryan could have reason to doubt that. But, like everything else, Michael did that to him, that to himself, too.   
  
“I just wanna know why. You said Istanbul and all this other stuff, but could we –” Ryan takes another deep breath. “Could we just . . . talk about it?”  
  
\---  
  
He doesn’t know where to start. There are a couple different ways, but there’s one thing he’s got to get out of the way, one thing that’s been bothering him since he called Ryan out for turning into some kind of Stepford husband, since Ryan read him the riot act, but that bothers him even more in this moment.  
  
“Ry, before I say  _anything_  else, there is one thing I want to be completely, crystal clear.” He makes sure to hold Ryan’s gaze. “It . . . it was never you. It . . . you weren’t  _enough_. You were, you are, you’ve always been . . .  _more than_ enough.”  
  
“Mike –”  
  
“Please.” He continues once Ryan nods. “It . . . I’m not – you know I’m not . . . good at talking stuff out.”  
  
Ryan gives him a disbelieving look.   
  
“Don’t –”  
  
“Try.”  
  
“I’m not – we need to talk. I get that. What I’m trying to say is . . . that’s the problem. That was the problem. I just . . . all this stuff that I didn’t say and everything just got out of control and I’m not even – I’m not making sense. Let me just –” He takes a deep breath. “It was always . . . I’m not like you. I don’t – like you’re just you and you’re honest and you’re open and when things aren’t shitty like this, you just live your life and do you and don’t care what other people think. And like – with you I could be more like that but like – you still got me even when I wasn’t. And for a long time I was and we were and it was . . . it was good. It was really good. And somewhere down the line I guess . . . I guess I kind of just thought you should  _know_  things sometimes but like . . . there was also stuff I just . . . I’m – I’m . . . ashamed, I guess.” He stops. “No, I am. And there’s just – there’s a lot and I don’t know where to start.”  
  
He looks at Ryan and Ryan looks back at him. They just stare at each other until Ryan clears his throat. “When did it change? Wait – that’s a dumb question.”  
  
“It’s not. I mean, Istanbul – it just – what was I supposed to say to that, you know? Like I just – I don’t know how you wanted me to react to that. You just sprung it on me and I – but I could’ve handled it better.”  
  
“I shouldn’t have done that. And I’ve said sorry and I am sorry, but that’s – sorry’s not good enough when it’s not gonna change everything else that happened. So.”  
  
 _Sorry’s not good enough._  “I know it doesn’t change things, but I am, though, you know. So much.”  
  
“I know.”   
  
Michael can hear the silent  _And it’s not OK_. “But why did you?”  
  
“Did I –”  
  
“Just – like that. Why didn’t you wait?”  
  
“It just – it slipped out. I was – Rio was – it was great. Just like – everything went great and you guys . . . like it was everything I wanted.” Bizarrely, Ryan smiles. “Like once I knew for sure you were never, ever, ever un-retiring. We could’ve killed it in Rio.”  
  
“Yeah, no.”  
  
“Stubborn.” Luckily Ryan seems to take it the way he means it . . . lightly in the midst of a heavy, heavy conversation.   
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I didn’t want it to end. I guess – I never really . . . I didn’t really know what was gonna come next and it just . . . like I got that it had to end at some point, but it was still . . . fun and it seemed like it didn’t  _have_ to end right then, so why stop? I was like . . . I was like on a high, you know? So . . .”  
  
“Excited,” he supplies. “We never talked about it. What next.”  
  
“Yeah. I’m not . . . like you said, I’m not like you. But like . . . I should’ve been a little more. Tried. Because like . . . it was . . . it was pretty fucking selfish.”  
  
“Ryan – you – that –” He tries to get his thoughts in some kind of order and it’s practically impossible. “It wasn’t the best move.” Understatement. It works somehow, he hopes.  
  
“The biggest.”  
  
“But that – if that was the only bad move we made between us, things wouldn’t be like they are right now. I made bad moves, too and maybe we’d both do better being a little more like each other, but we were – we are, even if we’re not  _right now_ , we’re good together. I really – I believe that, OK? I’m – I fucked up, but I’m – I’m better with you and I want to stay with you and for it to be good again.”  
  
“That’s . . . what I want.”  
  
It’s a relief. Sure Ryan said before he didn’t want him to leave, but – he could hear that a million times and it wouldn’t get old. The problem is . . . “I’m not sure you will when I’m done talking. Because I – I’m pretty sure I’m even more of an asshole than you think.”   
  
“Anybody else?”  
  
  
He imagines that was supposed to be a joke from Ryan’s tone, but it doesn’t quite come off. Surprisingly, it’s not a question Ryan’s ever asked. He’d threatened him within an inch of his life when it came to future  _anybody elses_ , but he hadn’t asked if Mary was the only. “Of course not.”  
  
“It’s not an  _of course_  kinda question.”  
  
 _Once a cheater, always a cheater_ , they always say. He shakes his head. Not him, never again. “Not that kind of asshole. It’s . . . I’m not sure if it’s better, though. Might be worse. I think – I’m not like you, but like . . . I can talk to you more than a lot of other people, you know? Except I couldn’t and I – some stuff I was thinking, I felt like I couldn’t say it to anybody else either because . . . it just –”   
  
Ryan suddenly sounds exasperated. “How bad could it be? And what does it have to do with –”  
  
“I didn’t . . . I’m not justifying. I just – I didn’t mean for things to end up the way they did with her. At first it was just . . . talking. That was all. Because it felt like everybody I was actually close to . . . like I don’t know, if I’d been  _thinking_ , maybe I would’ve said to hell with it and just picked somebody, but I felt like I couldn’t talk to them about everything, about you, because they wouldn’t get it, because . . . because it wouldn’t make sense, because I’d sound like an asshole, but I ended up  _being_ an asshole and you know it and everyone knows it and I only made it worse in the end. But she was . . . like removed from everything, you know? Objective, maybe. Except I don’t think I really wanted objective. I wanted somebody to tell me I was right. And I think she wanted the same thing. Except unless it was totally twisted, I kinda think she was in her case. Or like . . . I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Just that I fucked up and I’m sorry.”  
  
“I just – I still – I still don’t – I don’t get it. You have to like make me get it, because we have to make it right. This stuff – if we’re gonna work it out, we have to make it so it never happens again. And I just – like you can keep  _saying_ it won’t, but I just – like words are words. We have to make it real.”  
  
“I was – I just – I can’t.”  
  
Ryan rests his face against his hand. “I dunno what to tell you, Mike.”   
  
He swallows.   
  
Ryan starts to get up. “Maybe get me when you –”  
  
“Wait. I – it’s not that it was wrong for me to be mad about just being expected to go along with things and not really have a say, you know? I have a lot more to say about that but – I think – No matter what, I wouldn’t have right away. You know I have a hard time. But I think the reason I didn’t at all – it’s – somewhere along the way I got a little . . . jealous. Like I couldn’t even really admit it to myself, let alone you. So I just couldn’t say anything, at all.”  
  
“Jealous?” Ryan asks faintly.  
  
“Everyone was saying – how you might actually – and I just – how could I  _admit_ that? To  _you_?”


	30. there is love in your body, but you can’t get it out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only reason he makes it out of the car is because he can almost still hear his mom, telling him he has to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Florence + the Machine’s “Hardest of Hearts.”

 

_December 9, 2018_

Michael’s done plenty wrong. Ryan could tell you that from firsthand experience. If he somehow managed to forget, the past 24 hours would’ve set him straight again.

But he knows Michael’s not a bad person. That he didn’t just wake up one morning and think, “Today I really just want to fuck some random mom from the kids’ school just because.”

Whatever the facts of the matter, whatever Ryan thought then and thinks now, the bottom line is that obviously something was missing, something was wrong, something wasn’t enough. Yeah, Istanbul was a huge part of that. But it . . . can’t be the only thing.

Maybe Ryan didn’t appreciate him enough. Maybe Ryan wasn’t enough. . . . Well, actually, half of America thinks he’s a moron, but he knows he wasn’t. He might not want to think about it – because how’s he supposed to feel about that? – but it’s got to be true.

It’s one thing to come up short in the pool. That’s something you can work at: you put in the hours, you change your workout and if that doesn’t work, you change it again – as many times as it takes until you get it right. That’s the good thing about swimming, about sports, about a lot of things – failure isn’t final. But you can’t work on yourself that way. You are who you are and you can try to be a better version of yourself, but you can’t make yourself more. You can’t make yourself enough.

And maybe he just wasn’t.

The only reason he makes it out of the car is because he can almost still hear his mom, telling him he has to try.

\---

Now he needs – “What the fuck do I bring to the table? Why didn’t you leave? Why don’t you? Do you want to?”

“No! God, of course not.”

He leans forward, head in his hands, eyes closed because it’s just too much. He feels Michael’s hand on his shoulder.

“Because I love you.” He just – what? That makes his eyes snap open, heart pound. I love you.

He can’t even remember the last time he heard that. It’s not something they’ve ever thrown around a lot; they’re not mushy and it gets to where you just know, you know?

And whenever that was, was it even true? Is it? He could ask.

Instead, he asks why.

“Because –”

“Why’d you do it?” Pause. “I mean, I asked when I – when I caught you, but everything was so crazy, I couldn’t even think. Mike, I just – if you really –” Because he just – he doesn’t – he can’t – “I just wanna know why. You said Istanbul and all this other stuff, but could we –” He takes a deep breath. “Could we just . . . talk about it?”

“Ry, before I say anything else, there is one thing I want to be completely, crystal clear. It . . . it was never you. It . . . you weren’t enough.”

Christ –

“You were, you are, you’ve always been . . . more than enough.”

“Mike –”

“Please.”

He nods.

\---

“. . . But I think the reason I didn’t at all – it’s – somewhere along the way I got a little . . . jealous. Like I couldn’t even really admit it to myself, let alone you. So I just couldn’t say anything, at all.”

“Jealous?” His voice sounds strange in his own ears. Of what? he wants to ask, but he’s getting the horrible feeling he might know.

“Everyone was saying – how you might actually – and I just – how could I admit that? To you¬? You always – you never – you were always better than that.”

He wants to stay calm. He really, really does. Because Michael finally fucking said something. Something honest and real.

And fucked up as all hell. He – he – Michael ruined everything for –

Because he was jealous?

“Can you – can you say something?”

He’s tempted to let his fists do the talking. The urge to punch Michael is sharp and sudden and just as strong as last night in the kitchen with Erika and somewhere above it all that scares him. “I need – I’m not leaving. I just – I need you to – I need a little time. By myself.”

Michael parts his lips but nothing comes out at first. “I thought you didn’t want me to leave.”

“Just gonna go in another room.”

\---

He drinks two whole glasses of water in small, slow sips, takes lots more deep breaths.

They’re both competitive as fuck. They always have been. But it was never so . . . twisted and fucked up. Almost destroying everything they said was more important than the sport.

There always . . . he’d always . . . may the best man win. It was about who had the better race. Once he got out of the pool, meet or practice, it was over. At the end of the day, it was about him. Not Michael. Or Aaron or Clary or Cseh or anybody else he’s ever swum against.

Beijing could’ve been better, but he got sick and that definitely messed him up. And anyway, the 200 back wiped out the disappointment. His first individual gold. He’ll never forget that.

In London, though – no. He was frustrated with himself. Because he knew he could do it, could do better and he didn’t. Maybe that’s why he didn’t resent Michael crushing it over the years the way some of the other guys did. Because he could if he worked at it enough. Not just like that, but still something pretty amazing. The only thing holding him back was himself.

And he could never be the best if he didn’t compete against the best. He was better because he tried to meet that standard. He could . . . touch the sky, almost.

Sometimes he did. And it was amazing.

And later, Rio was great. There was that tiny little voice, though, the one that wondered whether he would’ve done as well if Michael had been on the blocks next to him instead of watching him. Maybe he would’ve dropped down the medal stand. Or maybe his times would’ve been even better.

He was better for having Michael around for his training. And he might be at meets, but it wasn’t the same. But the only thing that never changes is change, Gregg told him once, later, when he looked at the field during a Grand Prix race and realized he didn’t really know most of the guys – like he knew them, but not like he knew Cullen and the other guys.

God only knows.

And speak of the devil. “I need you to know – that – that’s not everything – it’s – I –”

“Stop. Just – I can’t.” Yet. It sucks, because he said he wanted to talk, wanted Michael to talk and now he can’t take it. It’s a lot to take, all at once.

“Please?” There’s something in Michael’s voice he’s not sure he’s ever heard there.

“Yeah just – like – you have to be honest. Just not sure how much I can take all at once, like –”

“I wasn’t – I wasn’t trying to fuck you over or hurt you because I was . . . you know. I mean, honestly, it wasn’t even like this . . . huge thing. But it was there with all the other stuff and I just – I couldn’t say it and that . . . made it hard to say other stuff, because I felt so shitty about it, like even though it wasn’t not OK for me to be mad about Istanbul and like there was other stuff that . . . like wasn’t about you that . . . wasn’t OK, I guess it’s like – like I didn’t – I don’t know, didn’t deserve, have a right to . . . it, because that one thing . . . I was so petty to even like think it ever. At all. I don’t know. And I talked to somebody I shouldn’t have and maybe that would’ve been OK if –”

He takes a deep breath. “It would’ve been OK if?”

“If that was all it was. The talking. If . . . I don’t know. If I got some good advice or something. It would’ve made it . . . worth it.”

“All of this? Everything that’s happened?” He hears his voice rising and knows it’ll just make Michael clam up again but he can’t help it.

“No! I mean, sharing our . . . business with anybody else at all. But I – I didn’t even get that.”

His head’s starting to hurt, but he can’t lose sight of things now. He can’t. He’ll have time to get mad or depressed or whatever and it’s taken them so long to actually face each other and listen and say anything at all. “What did you get? Besides . . . venting?”

“Like somebody that wasn’t swimming. But like got what it was like.”

“What swimming was like?” Really? Really?

“No. The rest of it.”

“The rest of it?”

“Like I felt like – you got to have everything and I had to choose and I got the raw end of the deal.”

“Nobody made you retire,” he snaps.

“I know – I’m just – I’m trying to explain, like even if it wasn’t rational or it was wrong or whatever it was, that’s how I was thinking then, OK? And I just – I’ve thought a lot since then and I can’t make sense of all of it, because a lot of it doesn’t and I don’t even understand myself, so I can’t expect you to. I wanted that. Retiring. I wanted a lot of things. And I didn’t always think about what it would mean when I got them. That maybe you can’t have it all. That maybe – that being able to make things happen when you want them, happen fast, doesn’t mean you should.”

And that was maybe the biggest issue they had, bigger than where to live, when and how to go – or not go – public, because it scared him so much and it scares him that all these years later Michael has doubts, regrets something that maybe they rushed into, but they can’t – he wouldn’t – ever take back. How can – “But we did.”

“Because I pushed.”

“But I don’t – why now? Why is –”

“You wouldn’t have come back.”

“I wouldn’t have come back?”

“Just for me. You wouldn’t have come back just for me, after what I did. And that’s not enough, maybe we weren’t stable enough, we’re not now, I just – whatever we’re doing, we’re not just doing it to each other and that’s my fault.”

“But like – what can we do about that?” He doesn’t know what makes him say it. “No takebacks. Remember?”

\---

_September 2013_

“If we’re really bad at this, can we take them back?” he asks, looking down at the twins in their car seats on the way home from the hospital, after weeks in the ICU. He’s mostly joking, but there’s just a little bit – this isn’t like babysitting their nieces and nephews, the twins are theirs, for real. Forever.

“No takebacks, Doggy,” Michael says, grinning at him in the rearview mirror.

\---

_December 9, 2018_

“Of course I remember.”

“Not them. Not us either.”

Michael sits down and sags back in his chair. “You don’t want me to leave and I don’t want to, but can we? Come back from this?”

No matter how much he’s not sure, it’s worth it, right? They’re worth it. They’re not quitters. “If we try like hell.”

“What if it doesn’t work? I mean, we want it, we’ve said it, we – we mean it, but what if it doesn’t work? What if we can’t make it better enough to move on?”

“We try again. And again.”

“And what if that doesn’t do it?”

“It will.” It has to.

“I – I want to say that, I want to do that, you know I don’t mind working my ass off for something that matters and this matters, so much, more than anything – but like it’s not just – I know you said we have to think about us, before, but it’s not just us. I don’t want to jerk them around, they may be little, but like, they see stuff, they feel this stuff, you know?”

“We haven’t actually even said much and . . . it’s still more than in forever,” Ryan says quietly. “So I think – if we keep it up, we’ll get there. Even if it – even if we have to say stuff we don’t wanna, stuff we’re not gonna like. If it’s true, we have to.”

“I know it’s . . . a lot, but I – I can’t do that if it’s going to drive you away.”

“If it’s –”

“You left.”

“The room.”

“Why?”

“Because it was a lot.” Honest. Be honest, he tells himself. He can’t ask for stuff he can’t give. “Speaking of stuff we don’t wanna say . . . I was angry. I wanted to hit you and that scared the fucking shit out of me.”

“Because you’ve never hit anybody before?”

Ryan gives him a disbelieving look. “Not like that. Just like me and Dev or like Kyle messing around isn’t even close. Or like some asshole in Dev’s face. This, it’s like . . . not OK.”

“Would it make you feel better?”

“No.” Ryan shakes his head. “Yeah.” Shakes his head again. “For like a second. And then I’d look at you and go get the First Aid kit and feel like the worst ever.”

“I’d rather that than –” Michael goes quiet.

“Than?”

“When – yesterday, in the bathroom, when I – when I first came in, I wasn’t completely honest.” Michael pauses. “I – yeah, Erika was the one who noticed how long you were taking, but once I realized, I was just as . . . worried. More. And when I went to your room and I don’t even know why I did, but I did and then the bathroom and . . . and I saw your razor was missing, I was so fucking scared. I ran. Just like seriously, I could’ve given Bolt a run for his money. And then you fucking joked about it, Jesus, and it was lying right there, for all I know you could’ve been about to –”

\---

His blingy razor.

A gift from Gil – another sponsor. Another reminder. Considering all he’d been trying to do was take a break from it all, a time out from the shitstorm coming down on him, it was a stupid thing to bring. He always feels better after a shave and God knows he needs to feel better right now, but it wasn’t like he needed a shave that bad.

He wouldn’t have though. Really, he wouldn’t have.

Could he have?

Straight through the kids’ names . . . But it wasn’t like they would’ve been home to see.

How fucking ironic, with something from a sponsor. Or fitting. If that was something he wanted to do.

It would’ve been the worst press, though. Erika would’ve had kittens.

\---

He shakes his head, not really believing his mind even went there and not liking it at all.

And not liking the fact that Michael really believed it was a real possibility.

How fucked up are they if Michael could think that?

How fucked up is Ryan that he just thought about it? “Mike –”

“No, I – whatever you’re going to say, well, unless it’s yeah, I thought about it –”

Not then he didn’t.

“Because, Christ, then we – then you – if I drove you to that –”

“I di – I was just gonna shave. That’s all.”

“But, I – that’s not the most important thing. I just – you need . . . I . . . I need you to know that losing you would be the worst fucking thing that could ever happen to me. Like, after, before, when you – when you walked in and then after you left and you wouldn’t pick up the phone, I just . . . I kept imagining all this awful shit happening to you and it was hours and hours before I knew you were OK, that none of the stuff I was afraid of happened. That you might hate my guts, but you were fine. That – that was the most important thing. I mean, even now, like you left and you were so angry and like, hadn’t slept and had a whole fucking pot of coffee or maybe more than one, I don’t even – like –”

“Michael. I was fine, I’m fine now, I’m gonna be fine.” He is – he just – like his mind gets away from him sometimes. That’s it.

Michael takes a deep breath. “Good.”

And then what Michael was saying really filters through, not just how freaked out he was getting, like practically hyperventilating – how bad he said losing him would be. And his head starts to hurt again, because if it really is, then how – then why – well, he does know. And they’re not even done. He’s probably gonna have to hear more shit he won’t like in the next few hours, days, weeks. But if he wants to be with Michael, and if Michael says losing him would be the worst fucking thing that could ever happen to him, then he has to. They have to.

His mom was right when she said it couldn’t just be about the kids. It isn’t. And in the middle of this whole fucking mess, that’s something to be glad about.


	31. done with my graceless heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the next couple days, things go . . . well, they’re going as well as they could be, considering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Florence + the Machine’s “Shake It Out.” I have switched the titles of 30 and 31 because they made more sense to me that way, so despite the familiar title, this IS a new chapter. Finally, I’m sorry, because I didn’t mean for this to take nearly a year! I hope you haven’t all totally lost interest in this story.

_Sunday, December 9, 2018 – Gainesville, FL_

 

“I – I want to say that, I want to do that, you know I don’t mind working my ass off for something that matters, but like – it’s not just – I know you said we have to think about us, before, but it’s not just us. I don’t want to jerk them around, they may be little, but like, they see stuff, they _feel_ this stuff, you know?”

 

“We haven’t actually even said much and it’s still more than in forever,” Ryan says quietly.

 

It’s true. He remembers the week after Ollie ran way, counting down the days until Ryan moved back, the completely illogical disappointment when he came home that day to find that Ryan had let himself in and already unpacked his things in the guest room. The way that, for the longest time, they avoided each other’s eyes and presence when the twins weren’t home. The perfunctory _mornings_ and clipped sentences and how they never really _talked_ and definitely not about their problems and everything just . . . festered while they tried to get things back to normal.

 

“So I think – if we keep it up, we’ll get there. Even if it – even if we have to say stuff we don’t wanna, stuff we’re not gonna like.”

 

“I know it’s . . . a lot, but I – I can’t do that if it’s going to drive you away.”

 

“If it’s –”

 

“You left.”

 

“The _room_.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because it was a lot. Stuff we don’t wanna say . . . I was angry. I wanted to hit you and that scared the shit out of me.”

 

It surprises him because it’s Ryan, but it also doesn’t surprise him, because _he’d_ want to hit him if he was Ryan. “Because you’ve never hit anybody before?”

 

Ryan gives him a disbelieving look. “Not like that. Just like me and Devon messing around isn’t even close. Or some asshole in Dev’s face. This, it’s like . . . not OK.”

 

“Would it make you feel better?”

 

“No.” Ryan shakes his head. “Yeah.” Shakes his head again. “For like a second. And then I’d look at you and go get the First Aid kit and feel like the worst ever.”

 

“I’d rather that than –” He bites his tongue. He may be 24 hours past being scared shitless, but things – and their mental states – still feel too shaky to admit what he was thinking then. “When – yesterday, in the bathroom, when I – when I first came in, I wasn’t really . . . honest.” He sighs, steeling himself. “I – yeah, Erika was the one who noticed how long you were taking, but once I realized, I was just as . . . worried.” And then it all comes back and just tumbles out in a rush. “And when I went to your room and I don’t even know why I did, but I did and then the bathroom and . . . and I saw your razor was missing, I . . . I was fucking _scared_. I ran. Like could’ve given Bolt a run for his money. And then you fucking _joked_ about it and it was lying right there, for all I know you could’ve been about to –”

 

“Mike –”

 

“No, I – whatever you’re going to say, well, unless it’s _yeah, I thought about it_ , because, Christ, then we – then you – if I drove you to _that_ –”

 

“I di – I was just gonna shave. That’s all.”

 

But that’s not all of it. The guilt would eat at him, but what would destroy him, the worst of it, would be the thought of having to live without Ryan. “But, I – that’s not the most important thing. I just – you need . . .” He can’t quite get it out, but he has to. He _has_ to. “I . . . I need you to know that losing you would be the worst fucking thing that could ever happen to me. Like, after, before, when you – when you walked in and then after you left and you wouldn’t pick up the phone, I just . . . I kept imagining all this awful shit happening to you and it was hours and hours before I knew you were OK, that none of the stuff I was afraid of happened. That you might hate my guts, but you were fine. That – that was the most important thing. I mean, even now, like you left and you were so angry and like, hadn’t slept and had a whole fucking pot of coffee or maybe more than one, I don’t even – like –”

 

“ _Michael_. I was fine, I’m fine now, I’m gonna _be_ fine,” Ryan says firmly.

 

Michael takes a deep breath. “Good.”

 

There’s a slightly too long pause until Ryan asks if he’s eaten yet.

 

“Didn’t think to.”

 

“My mom made food.”

 

Where did he –

 

“I forgot it in the car. But like it won’t kill us, it’s cold out.”

 

“This might pass for cold in Florida, but to people raised with real seasons, it’s _mild_ ,” Michael retorts.

 

“Seasons are overrated. I’m gonna go get it.”

 

Not much to do in the meantime except set the table. He’s not exactly hungry, but for the first time since yesterday morning, he feels like he might be able to get some food down.

 

When Ryan comes back inside with what looks like two weeks’ worth of food, he looks a lot tenser than just a few minutes before. “Won’t have to cook for like a week.”

 

“That’s really nice of her.” His pile of IOUs is getting bigger by the minute.

 

The fridge shakes when Ryan opens the door a little too fast. “Yeah. Kept her busy.” Because their scared, confused kids aren’t enough work.

 

“What’s the matter?” It’s a stupid question. The better one is what _isn’t_ the matter?

 

Ryan blurts out, “There were people outside.”

 

“People?”

 

“You know, a few guys with cameras and they were like saying stupid shit to try and like get me to talk back, you know how they do.”

 

“What’d you do?”

 

“Nothing. Didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at ‘em. Wasn’t gonna give them a good picture, right?”

 

Having to send the kids off was the worst, but now Michael’s glad they did it. Even one pap with this kind of agenda is one too many around them. Bad enough having those creeps around just the two of them. “So we’re not going anywhere.”

 

“Fuck no.”

 

“Lucky we have all this food.”

 

“Croquetas first.” Ryan’s tone brooks no argument.

 

\---

 

Because the day’s taken so much out of them, they agree to unplug entirely. Turn off the TV (just in case), their cell phones, iPads, computers – everything. They make sure Ike, Peter and Erika know to call the landline if there’s an actual emergency (Ike) or crisis (Peter and Erika).

 

When they finish eating, Ryan’s practically falling asleep at the table but somehow manages to stagger upstairs to the guest room. Sleep seems like it might actually be an option for Michael too, so he sets an alarm before lying down so there’s no way they miss checking in with the twins.

 

\---

 

Over the next couple days, things go . . . well, they’re going as well as they could be, considering. But they can’t rest on their laurels, which is why they’re conferencing with their agents regularly. Erika’s still in town, but wisely hasn’t come back since their confrontation.

 

He sits up, realizing he’s spaced out.

 

“. . . You should go away, get some space and distance once your kids are off from school. After Christmas. Maybe even _for_ Christmas.”

 

So much for wisdom. This might be the worst idea Erika’s ever had. He’s not going to ruin _Christmas_ , for Christ’s sake. After everything they’ve been through, the least they can give their kids is a fucking normal _Christmas_.

 

“No way. Why would we –”

 

“Just think about it,” Peter interrupts. Now _Peter’s_ siding with her? What the hell is this, the Twilight Zone?

 

“Fine. If there’s nothing else, we’ll talk to you later,” he non-answers curtly before hanging up. He shakes his head in disbelief. “They want us to fuckingrun away –”

 

“Like that’s not it.”

 

“What do you want to call it, then?” he asks, trying for calmer. It’s just them now and it’s not Ryan he’s mad at.

 

“I think I – like it’s not brush everything under the rug, it’s just – we’ve been through so much, you know? Like we have a lot to work on, but like, we know we wanna work on it and it’s gonna be hard, but we’re gonna fight like hell. But I think – I think we need a break. Just like _be_ and breathe and I – I think going away’s a good idea. Like Erika said. Get us out of here a while.”

 

When he puts it that way . . . if it’ll help them . . . “We could do that. After Christmas.”

 

“Actually, um, I was thinking – maybe we should go away _for_ Christmas?”

 

“But like –”

 

“We’re not having Christmas here. And like, I think . . .”

 

“What do you think?” he presses when Ryan doesn’t finish his sentence.

 

“I don’t wanna do Thanksgiving again. Like I just – I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can go to Baltimore.”

 

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” It’s the truth, even if his sisters hadn’t been so . . . hostile before he set them straight. “What about yours?”

 

“Would you really wanna do that? If Thanksgiving with your family sucked for me, well . . . Christmas with mine would suck even worse for you, because – well, at least Debbie and the kids didn’t . . . you know. But like . . . you, right now? The kids would be fine, but everybody else, it – you know.”

 

He sighs. He wants to say they can go without him, but he can’t. He couldn’t spend Christmas without them.

 

\---

 

_Wednesday, December 12, 2018_

 

The fifth night of their lockdown, Michael wakes up desperately wanting water.

 

It’s only on his way back that he notices the glow of the TV in the living room and nearly drops his glass in shock.

 

He shakes his head at himself. Because obviously someone breaking in would sit down in their living room, turn on their TV and put it on mute before sitting down to catch up on late-night re-runs.

 

Except Ryan isn’t catching up on late-night re-runs. Ryan is watching Short Course Worlds. Specifically (as far as Michael can tell, based on the competitors walking out), what was supposed to be the first event of his program for the meet.

 

That had actually been swum over 12 hours ago.

 

Because Michael’s standing behind the couch and can’t see Ryan’s face, he doesn’t have the faintest idea what he’s thinking, how he feels.

 

“Ryan?”

 

He jumps. Literally. It’s almost funny, the kid-caught-with-my-hand-in-the-cookie-jar look on his face as he pauses the recording.

 

Or it would be if Michael didn’t think about why Ryan looks so guilty over watching the meet he should’ve been swimming in. 

 

Or the reason why he isn’t swimming in said meet.

 

“Mind if I sit?”

 

“No. I mean, yeah. I mean – sit.”

 

Michael puts his glass down on the coffee table, careful to leave enough room to prop his feet up.

 

Once he’s settled, Ryan hits play. Michael quickly starts assessing the competition: it’s not the deepest field he’s ever seen for the event, but there are one or two (relative) newbies who can make big strides between now and 2020. But once he’s determined that, he doesn’t pay much attention to the screen; instead, Michael watches Ryan watch the race, noticing how he holds his hands, how the rhythm of his breathing is just like it would be in the pool, how _loud_ it sounds in the silence of their house in Gainesville instead of in the pool in Madrid. 

 

How Ryan instinctively stretches his fingers as Pierluigi touches the wall first.

 

There’s a part of Michael that wants to go to bed, so he doesn’t keep torturing himself with the longing in Ryan’s every reflex. There’s a part of him that thinks he deserves it. There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to leave Ryan alone to torture _him_ self watching this. There’s part of him that thinks Ryan needs this, that thinks it’s cathartic in some way and that he’s intruding on that catharsis.

 

He’s just not sure which part is right or whether they’re all right or all wrong or some more right or wrong than others. Whatever Ryan might’ve said a few nights ago, he’s still not really sure what Ryan wants, because it’s obvious that Ryan doesn’t know what he wants.

 

He settles for silence and slipping his hand over Ryan’s.

 

Considering that Ryan falls asleep before they get through the rest of the first night’s finals and semis, looking far more peaceful than he did awake, Michael thinks it might have been the right move.

 

\---

 

_Thursday, December 13, 2018_

 

 _Erika_. Wonderful.

 

“I – Ryan said you were in here.”

 

He waits for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “Yes?”

 

“Can we talk?”

 

“So you can get in my face some more? Not interested, Erika,” he replies, turning his attention back to his ropa vieja.

 

And somehow she doesn’t get it. “It’s not like that. Can I have a minute? A calm, civil, _rational_ minute? And if you don’t want to listen after that, then I’ll stop.”

 

She’s persistent, he’ll give her that. He considers it. If he’ll be rid of her in a minute . . . “Fine.”

 

“I just – there are some things I need to clear up. Because I think we haven’t . . . entirely understood each other and that’s made everything . . . worse. And we’ve both been . . . upset. Because this is a very . . . trying situation. And I’d like to explain some things because this isn’t going away quickly and things can’t go on like this. I will do my part to keep things civil, I won’t . . . antagonize you, but there are some things I’d like to clear up first so we can be in a better place moving forward.” She pauses, looks at him, waiting.

 

That was calm, civil and rational. Michael wasn’t sure Erika could manage those things anymore. “You can keep going.”

 

“There are . . . things you’ve said over the past couple days that . . . frankly, I’m not sure where you got the idea from and if I did anything to give you that idea, well . . . I apologize.”

 

He nods and waits.

 

“That I wanted Ryan for myself, for one.”

 

He feels his face heat up at that and doesn’t say anything. What can he say? _Mostly I was trying to goad you?_

 

“Ryan is . . . a great guy. Fun and funny and charming and kind. And, I mean, I have eyes. He’s ridiculously attractive. But it’s not like that. It never has been. I love my husband. And even if I didn’t, even if I were single . . . well, it’s not like that. And even if it were . . . well, he loves you.” Erika sounds a lot more confident about that than he feels.

 

Did she say that on purpose to fuck with him? To lull him into a false sense of security?

 

“And anyway, in this business, you’d have to be an idiot to try to break up a client’s marriage. You’d ruin yourself. I mean, me especially . . . Johnny could sink anybody in 5 minutes flat if he had reason to,” she muses. “Besides, if you’re the type that gets involved with celebrities – and those people obviously exist – you don’t get involved with somebody you rep. It’s just . . . too obvious a cliché.” 

 

There’s the shark he knows.

 

“But none of that’s really the point,” she continues, with a slight shake of the head. “The point is . . . getting married and starting a family’s a big deal for anybody. But for you guys, that was . . . a whole other level of big deal. Trust me, I know. I think you know the sheer amount of . . . strategy involved for both me and Peter back then.”

 

“I think he hated me a little,” Michael admits before he can stop himself.

 

“We definitely earned our keep.”

 

“No argument from me.” He’s surprised to realize he means it.

 

“But seriously . . . I respect what that meant, the level of commitment that signified. From both of you. I didn’t . . . you weren’t wrong to say I wasn’t exactly thrilled. Because I . . . it’s my job to see the pros and cons and well . . . with another person – man or woman – Ryan could probably be the center of attention. With you . . . well, you know . . . And my whole job is selling him and making him look good.”

 

“I get that but –”

 

“But there’s more. The thing is, Ryan’s my client, but I also care about him as a person. It’s hard to know him and _not_ care about him. And you made him happy.”

 

 

“And I . . . don’t hate you. At some points I _thought_ I did, but I don’t. I _have_ been pretty . . . hostile, frankly, since I got here and but that’s . . . that’s because I care. It wasn’t professional and I’m not proud of it, but . . . there it is.”

 

“I –”

 

“Actually . . . I really – again, I wasn’t thrilled at first, but I . . . I have to say I respected how much you got behind Rio. How much of a . . . team player you were. Obviously it must’ve been strange. Difficult even. But you did it. Somebody else, after retiring, might not have. So I really . . . obviously, it wasn’t done for my benefit or anything like that, but I appreciated it, that you understood – though I guess that shouldn’t surprise me, considering you’re one of the only people besides Ryan himself who knows what that’s like – what it meant to him, why London wasn’t enough. And that you did something about it.”

 

And that, that more than anything she’s said since she first arrived on their doorstep, maybe even more than realizing what she meant when she said his affair _would’ve been_ the story of the year, blindsides him. He’s quite literally speechless.

 

“I –”

 

“Thank you. I – I appreciate hearing that,” Michael finally manages, interrupting her. He may not entirely trust her, but if she’ll play ball, he will too. It’s in nobody’s best interest for them to be at each other’s throats. Not Ryan’s, not their kids’, not even his own.

 

“I mean it. And I – I do want Ryan to think about himself, but I don’t – I’m not trying to sabotage you. Because . . . even if I _did_ hate you, I’ve never had a client who prioritizes his family as much as Ryan does. And it wouldn’t be my place to re-arrange his priorities, even if it . . . pains me to see him end his career this way. Even if it hurts his bottom line.” She sighs. “And mine. But –”

 

“Erika?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I – I’m glad you’re laying it all out the table, but . . . I’d like to get a word in.”

 

“Oh. Of course.” Is she . . . _blushing_?

 

“I . . . may have misunderstood? – misinterpreted? – you in the past.” He’s still not convinced he did, but he’ll try to keep – at least appear to keep – an open mind even if he keeps his guard up. “But, like you said, you _have_ been pretty damn hostile since you got here. That said – and it was in large part in response to the vibes _I_ was getting from _you_ – I was hostile, too. And it would be best if we were on the same page and could . . . cooperate rather than antagonize each other.”

 

“I’d like that,” Erika tells him with a firm nod.

 

“Good. I’m glad we agree.”

 

He holds out his hand and they shake on it.

 

“I’ll see you later, Michael. I think – I’ll be heading back tonight; I mean, I’ll be keeping an eye on things, come back as or if necessary, but – things being what they are, we have enough to work with for now. I just wanted to sort things out first.”

 

“OK. Well, safe trip.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

She’s halfway out of the room when he calls her name. “Erika?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“He shouldn’t go out like this.” It may not be the most important thing, especially right now, but Michael knows, in his bones, that it’s not fair.

 

 _He’s hardly perfect and he acted downright badly in Rio – you know what I thought of that, not that you followed my advice._ _But his heart is in the right place and when push came to shove, he put your family first. It’s unfortunate that something so dramatic had to happen for that to happen, but it did._ . . .  

 

 _The thing is, though, it wasn’t all that much of a choice. He’s been backed into a corner._ _And I’m not sure you can understand that because that wasn’t your case: you chose to retire after London, no matter how the rest of us felt about it. You knew you would do it well in advance and you did it because you wanted to, because it made sense to you and for you, because you’d accomplished or would accomplish everything you set out to do by the end of those Games. But Ryan – it’s night and day._

 

“I know. But I think – we need time. He – you – the big things need to be good before anybody can really get him to see reason on that. Getting him to postpone is – it’s good enough for now. It’s a start. Just work on the rest of it, OK? The things that matter. Let’s – after the holidays, maybe? Then . . . then you talk. Together. Figure it out. Or just – I’m not telling you what to do. Just – I had to . . . say some things to get him even to consider postponing. It was necessary, but I don’t want to push more than that.”

 

_If you try to force him on this now – to force the pool back on him – after everything that’s happened, you’re basically making his choices for him. And that’s the last thing you should do. You’ve already said your piece; just – I think you need to let him be because at this point, neither choice is going to make him truly happy. The only thing you can do now is let him choose from the options he has and support that decision._

 

He knows his mother’s right and Erika, too (as much as he hates to admit it), but he also knows what’s fair and what isn’t, so it’ll be hard for him to take the advice. Not pushing isn’t really his strength, but in the meantime he’ll do his best.


	32. it sticks on your tongue and it shows on your face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve been spending a lot more time doing stuff to keep themselves busy than talking, but they can’t just spend all the time talking. It took months, maybe even years, for everything to build up and they’re not going to fix it in days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Florence + the Machine’s “Hardest of Hearts.” Not QUITE so much time chapters. This seems like an appropriate time to point out that the story will be undergoing some revisions in the earlier chapters. See notes at the end, too.

_Sunday, December 9, 2018 – Gainesville, FL_

 

Last night in the kitchen with Erika.

 

It comes back to him later, after he’s gotten up to say good night to the twins and can’t fall back asleep.

 

_Think about Michael Phelps the Greatest Olympian of All Time, Michael Phelps who kicked your a – butt in the pool event after event, meet after meet, year after year. Michael Phelps whose shadow you’ve been stuck in for most of your career. Michael Phelps whose name will always come before yours in the history books – if yours is even there at all, other than as ‘husband of’ the Greatest Olympian of All Time, who also happened to have swum at the Olympics and won some medals. No big deal. Think about that guy. Think about all the times you didn’t get enough credit for all the amazing swimming you did – all the times you blew everybody else out of the water – because it wasn’t thought to be up to his standard._

 

He remembers the awful taste in his mouth. How fast his heart pounded, how all he could see was red. How tight he held his beer bottle, half-convinced it’d shatter in his hand.

 

He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose.

 

And he . . .

 

Somehow . . . somehow he understands. At least a little.

 

At least enough.

 

Michael the gangly-awkward 15 year old with the too-big ears might not have told Debbie and Bob and Peter that he wanted to win the most Olympic medals or even the most Olympic gold medals or the most Olympic medals in swimming ever.

 

But Michael grew up to do that and then some.

 

And by doing _that_ , he achieved younger Michael’s goal of changing the sport forever.

 

And maybe . . . maybe if somebody else did that – some of that, _one_ of those things, because God knew Ryan wasn’t about to win 8 golds in one Olympics and definitely not the most golds ever – maybe that could make it less meaningful. _He_ doesn’t think so, but . . .

 

Michael . . . to the world, Michael was – Michael _is_ swimming. And sometimes . . . in the lead-up to Beijing . . . later, after the first time he beat Michael at Nationals . . . Ryan used to worry that Michael was swimming to himself, too.

 

When he gets up to pour himself a glass of water, he thinks maybe he shouldn’t have stopped worrying.

 

And maybe he gets it a little, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell, doesn’t mean he isn’t mad.

 

\---

 

_Wednesday, December 12, 2018_

 

It’s the first time he’s left the house since he went to see his mother. He doesn’t really want to, but he knows if he doesn’t do this before they leave for Christmas, he never will.

 

Gregg hinted around about doing this once years ago and then now when things went to shit, but knew him enough to know he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t want to.

 

He didn’t. He’d been surprised Gregg thought something like this would actually do anything. Gregg didn’t seem like the type. In fact, Ryan had been kind of offended the first time around because Gregg demanded his swimmers be physically _and_ mentally tough and it implied that Gregg thought he wasn’t. Wasn’t tough enough to handle a rough patch, at least, and yeah, he’d been going through a lot, but he hated that, so he ignored the suggestion and sucked it up. 

 

But now he has to.

 

“Nice to meet you, Ryan.”

 

He shakes her hand. “You too.”

 

“You can sit wherever you like, some people feel more comfortable sitting in front of my desk, others on the couch. I’ll follow your lead.” Dr. Mills sits down in the chair catty-corner to him on the couch. “So tell me a little bit about yourself, why you’re here.”

 

“I, um, it’s complicated.”

 

“It usually is. So how about you start with you and we can get to the rest of it later?”

 

“I – um, I live here in Gainesville. Went to UF and uh, never really left.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

He can’t help but feel like she’s leading him on or something. “Well, because I swim with the Gator Swim Club.”

 

“You’re giving me a Look. Why’s that?”

 

“Well, Doc, not to be cocky, but people here usually know who I am.”

 

“I never said I didn’t. But I know what most people here might know: you are a UF alum with an exceptionally impressive professional swimming career. Anything else I know or don’t know is up to you.”

 

“Anything else? Even the stuff in the tabloids?” he challenges.

 

“I’m aware, but I don’t make a point of reading –”

 

“Do you think it’s true?”

 

“I know the media often misconstrues and misrepresents –”

 

She’s not getting off the hook that easy. “What do you think, though?”

 

“I’m only just meeting you, so I can’t say. I don’t know you or your husband. What I do know is that I frequently deal with marital issues, which has in the past been a reason Dr. Lopez refers her patients’ parents to me. Because oftentimes people choose to take their children to a therapist due to . . . changes at home. So if you’re asking me to . . . speculate, I would say it’s possible that you’ve hit a rough patch in your marriage, whether or not it’s due to the reasons being offered up by people who don’t actually know you.”

 

“My coach – he, uh, he wanted me to see somebody a while back. We’re, uh – we’re pretty close; he’s like family, you know? And I was just like – really frustrated about everything, like that things were so bad my kids had to _see a shrink_.”

 

“It’s not something to be ashamed of – children don’t necessarily deal well with change – good or bad – and sometimes we all need a little extra help. And they’ve been in very good hands.”

 

“Dr. Lopez is great. But like – I wish we didn’t need her. Or you, no offense.”

 

“None taken. People usually don’t go to a doctor – even those focusing on mental health – if they’re in tip-top shape. We’d all rather be in tip-top shape. But like I said, most of us need a little help sometimes.”

 

“You’re uh – you’re not allowed to tell people anything I tell you, right? It’s like Dr. Lopez said?”

 

“Exactly. Doctor-patient confidentiality. That’s something most people worry about, coming in.”

 

“No, but like, I know like _nobody_ wants their stuff getting blabbed, but like, the tabloids, you know?”

 

“Not only would that be completely unethical, but there’s the doctor-patient confidentiality thing. I’d lose my license and frankly, I love my career. It may sound cheesy, but I really do enjoy helping people.”

 

“Nah, I get it. And sorry, I just . . .”

 

“Don’t apologize. I do understand that someone in your position has to be careful.”

 

“I – yeah. So yeah, that’s why I’m here. Because we had a, um, rough patch. And like, we’re, uh, we’re trying to get through it or past it or whatever.”

 

“What does that mean for you?”

 

“Like for things to be better again.”

 

“What’s better look like? What changes? Other than maybe the obvious of not having strangers on your case,” she continues wryly.

 

“That’d be good. And like, I don’t know, being happy again.”

 

“What would make you happy?”

 

“Like, that things not be so hard. Like I know everything can’t be the same as before, because not everything was good before or else . . .” He trails off uncomfortably, because yeah, Dr. Mills was all _doctor-patient confidentiality_ , only six (no, seven, can’t forget _Mary_ ) people – including the two of them – know, how much everything that’s being said is true.

 

“Or else?”

 

“Or else Mi – my husband wouldn’t have had an affair.” Make that eight. “Right?”

 

“I can’t speak for him specifically, but – well, people have a choice in how they do or don’t react in the face of certain circumstances. And there are a lot of things that can lead people to make . . . certain choices. And it – to be honest, it doesn’t do much good for us to speculate on his motivations without him. Instead, I’d advise some joint sessions, whether those are with me or with another therapist. Perhaps he might benefit some individual sessions as well, if that’s something he would be willing to pursue. But that’s something for another day. Today you’re here and we’re here to talk about you . . .”

 

\---

 

_Friday, December 14, 2018_

 

Three days after they talk Christmas plans with Erika and Peter, his mother Skypes him while the kids are at school so they won’t overhear her. When she asks what day they’re coming for Christmas, she really doesn’t like his answer. “We want to see you –”

 

“I’m sorry, but –”

 

“And how can you keep the kids away from us? We didn’t get to see them for Thanksgiving already and God knows how many Christmases I have le–”

 

He doesn’t want to think about. And she could totally outlive them all, anyway. “You _never_ do, Mom. Anyway, so you want us to come to your house –”

 

“ _Home_ , sweetie.”

 

“ _This_ is home, Mom, with my family.”

 

“We’re your family, too, or did you forget?”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“I do but –”

 

“You can’t seriously expect us to come. You know Devon wouldn’t last five minutes without clocking Mike – and that’s if Dev’s not waiting for him by the door.”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t be _happy_ having him either, after –”

 

“What do you want me to do? Leave him alone here or tell him to go to Baltimore without our kids for Christmas?”

 

“Well, you can’t expect _me_ to be all right with what he did to you, Ryan.”

 

He’s starting to feel a headache coming on. What happened to the mom who told him to do what would make him happy? But he gets it. Actually he’s kind of surprised his sister hasn’t shown up with like a pitchfork or something. She’d probably drag Megan along, too. “That’s exactly it, Mom. You aren’t and no one else is and who could blame you? I get it, but you know how shitty that’ll make Christmas. Everyone just needs some time to chill out. Thanksgiving was bad enough.”

 

“Why was Thanksgiving bad, Ryan?”

 

_Shit._ Why the fuck did he bring that up to his _mother_? She’d probably send Kristin to Baltimore to tear Hilary and Whitney’s hair out. Not that there’s not a little part of him – the part he had to shove down that entire holiday, the part that’s angry thinking about it now – that would be glad, evening the playing field. He knows it’s unfair to be toomad at Michael’s sisters considering they did exactly what his own brothers and sisters, especially Devon and Kristin, would’ve done in their shoes, thinking what they thought. Doesn’t mean he’s _not_ mad, because he sure as hell is, but the last thing he needs to do right now is start a family feud. “Mom, don’t _._ ”

 

“Ryan Steven, if after what he _did_ , his family –”

 

“Mom. You know pretty much everybody thought some things about what went down before the story broke. And we wanted to keep it quiet so –”

 

“How convenient for Michael.”

 

“For all of us. You know how much it sucks that Ollie and Lo could _Google_ this someday, Mom?”

 

“Yes, but Michael did that to himself. He should’ve thought –”

 

“But he didn’t. You know what Grandma always said.”

 

_If ifs and buts were candy nuts, we’d all have a Merry Christmas_.

 

“She was a lovely lady.” Grandma was one of the few people who could bring his mother to sarcasm.

 

“No, she wasn’t, but she had a point. We’ve gotta work with what we’ve got and I think we should stay here.”

 

“I – I guess you’re right, probably, but I miss you.”

 

“You just saw me.”

 

“Under the worst circumstances.”

 

“Yeah but –”

 

“It was terrible, Ryan. Why didn’t you tell me? I hate that you were going through that alone.”

 

“Mom, I told –”

 

“So somehow it was all right for Michael to tell _his_ mother, but not for you to tell me?”

 

“Don’t think that was fun for him. Anyway, I wasn’t the one with like a guilty conscience. Not over ch – that, anyway.”

 

“What do you have to feel guilty about? You didn’t bring this mess into your lives.”

 

“Mom, it’s complicated, OK?”

 

“My God, Ryan, honey, stop being such a martyr.” That sounds like such a Kristin thing to say it surprises him to hear it come out of his mom’s mouth.

 

“I’m not – I just – we’re trying to work this out – we’ve _been_ trying and this wouldn’t help. Please don’t push.”

 

“Sweetie –”

 

“Please.”

 

“Are you sure? About Christmas?”

 

“Yeah. I am.”

 

“OK. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

 

“Fair. You just have to take it.”

 

“I trust you but –”

 

“No buts, Ma.”

 

“I was even going to invite your father.”

 

“So you wouldn’t for your other kids?”

 

“You know he just saw your brothers and sisters for Thanksgiving weekend. But since you haven’t been sw–”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’m angry he didn’t tell me that. I’m angry he didn’t fight you on that.” His mother almost never _gets_ angry, so that’s a lot for her.

 

“Don’t be mad at him” They still talk (talked) swimming, but it’s not like Dad’s even coaching anymore. “And I mean, it’s not like you guys talk all the time, you know?”

 

“We may not be married anymore, but we’re still your parents. We don’t stop being your parents because we’re divorced and –”

 

“I – I know, Mom. But anyway, Gregg fought me on that. Didn’t do any good.”

 

“But I’m your mother. I’m different. I’ve always been different.”

 

“Yeah. You’ve been my mom twice as long as he’s been my coach. You know better. You know it wouldn’t have worked.”

 

“I disagree.”

 

“Well, agree to disagree, Mom.”

 

She sighs, annoyed. “Fine. You’re so _stubborn_.”

 

“Your son. Pot and kettle and black and all that.”

 

“Ryan _Steven_ , I raised you better than that. Don’t you sass me.”

 

With his mother, _don’t you sass me_ sometimes means _you’re right and I don’t want to admit it_. “Sorry, Ma.”

 

“Anyway, you get that from your father.”

 

He tries not to laugh. “Yeah, let’s shade Dad when he’s not here to defend himself.”

 

She sighs. “Are you sure I can’t change your mind?”

 

“Nope.”

 

She sighs again. “Well . . . I’ll let you go.  I love you.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“Call again soon. Or I’ll worry. I mean, I will anyway but –”

 

“Don’t worry. I will. Bye, Mom.”

 

“Bye sweetie.”

 

Ryan hangs up the Skype call when he hears familiar footsteps behind him.

 

“I didn’t mean to, but I – I heard you talking to your mom.”

 

“Oh. Man, she –”

 

“She was right.”

 

“Mike, she was –”

 

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. I – thanks.”

 

“You’re . . . welcome, I guess?”

 

“It’d serve me right if Devon punched me, though.”

 

_He’s not a fighter and definitely not with Mike, but now – now Ryan wants to land a punch even more than that time with Devon and the bartender._   
  
_But when he gets out he wraps his left hand around his clenched right fist. Because domestic violence. Because the neighbors. Because Ollie and Lo. They’d want to know why Dad had a black eye._

 

Ryan shakes his head, shakes the thought, makes a point of saying something not so serious. Kind of. “He might have to get in line behind Kristin and her purse. She took out a pickpocket in Rio with that thing.”

 

“Damn.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

\---

 

_Monday, December 17, 2018_

 

It’s not easy. It can’t be.

 

They’ve been spending a lot more time doing stuff to keep themselves busy than talking, but they can’t just spend all the time talking. It took months, maybe even years, for everything to build up and they’re not going to fix it in days. They can do it, Dr. Mills told him, but it’ll take time. But they’re doing a lot of stuff together. Planning their trip. Ordering the twins’ presents, presents for their nieces and nephews. Michael has a great idea for Bran and Ryan finds something Debbie will lose her shit over from the Chico’s website, but otherwise they just buy for their own families.

 

They were supposed to get their Christmas tree the Sunday after the shit hit the fan, so they haven’t gotten around to it. But they have to have a tree when the kids come home, even if they’re not here long before they leave for the holidays. One morning, they get out the lights and the ornaments and yeah, the Nativity set, even if his mom won’t have time to enjoy it, so it’ll all be ready when they come back with their tree.

 

There’s still a couple stupid fuckers around – more than the day he went to see his mom, but not as many as the first day he went to see Dr. Mills.

 

\---

 

_Wednesday, December 12, 2018_

 

That day, he gets followed, but Dr. Mills is in a random office building, so it’s not like they know what he’s doing. One of them tries following him in, like he’s just going into the building for his own business. Like Ryan wouldn’t notice. But he tells the security guard at the front desk that he’s there for an appointment and this guy’s harassing him. The pap can’t get away fast enough.

 

Turns out there are lawyers in the building, too, because that night there’s a story that he was meeting with a few there “to start divorce proceedings.” Obviously that’s it, because he went without Michael. Or so Erika tells him early the next morning before they’re supposed to talk with Peter and her. She won’t let it go, insists on knowing what he was actually doing there – _if that’s what you were doing, I need to know_. He just tells her that’s not it and it’s private.

 

But it definitely isn’t as bad as Erika worried about when she told him the kids shouldn’t be around. That’s probably because they don’t really leave the house, so these guys are bored and not getting much somebody’ll pay them for and it’s not like there’s a ton of other people for them to go after. Missy maybe, but she leads a pretty boring life for a young, single superstar athlete. Still, if the kids were home, they’d have to take them to school and lessons and stuff and they sure as hell don’t want these bozos in their faces when Ollie and Lo are with them.

 

\---

 

_Monday, December 17, 2018_

 

He puts on headphones like he did the day he went to see Dr. Mills, once he knew there’d be people outside. So does Michael. This way, they have no idea what these assholes are saying and can’t get worked up.

 

See what kind of story they get out of them coming back with the perfect Christmas tree.

 

When they’re done decorating it that night, they start marathoning a crappy TV comedy.

 

\---

 

_Friday, December 21, 2018_

 

The night before their trip is the best he’s felt in ages.

 

It’s not just having the kids home again, but having them home again knowing that things are better than when they left, that they’re making things better for good. For the first time in forever, he _knows_ they’re not letting Ollie and Lo down.

 

\---

 

“Grandma wouldn’t let us have this for dinner,” Lo tells him in the tone she usually saves for tattling on the boys.

 

“’Cause it’s our thing.”

 

Lo purses her lips before starting in on her food. Good, because they have to eat fast. The kids have their school holiday thing soon and they’re leaving first with Mom, who’s picking up their friends before that.

 

\---

 

The paps that tailed them get chased off by the school’s surprisingly scary security guards, who direct them to a side entrance.

 

Elizabeth’s waiting in the lobby with the guys and she gives them each a big hug, but gets without being told that they don’t want to talk about it, not tonight. Probably not ever.

 

\---

 

When they walk in, two people on each side of them to keep anybody from getting too close, most of the parents and other people in the auditorium are watching them and giving no fucks whether they know they’re watching them. A few they know a little better shoot them sympathetic looks, like they feel bad and maybe want to say something but don’t know what.

 

He hates all of it, because usually they’re just like . . . normal parents. They _are_ normal parents. And that’s nice.

 

Elizabeth pastes a smile on her face that looks almost just like her real one and manages to hustle them to their seats at the front without looking like she’s in a hurry. After Conor and Nathan have put stuff on the chairs on their other sides so nobody sits in them and they’ve taken up the whole row, she passes out programs.

 

Ryan leans across his mom, who’s just gotten back from making some last-minute adjustments on Lo’s costume; Elizabeth is sitting on her other side. “When did you –”

 

“It’s called multi-tasking. So much easier –”

 

“When Caro’s home, right?” She’d be screaming bloody murder by now.

 

“I love her –”

 

“But she’s exhausting,” Conor finishes from the end of the aisle.

 

“Thank God Evan was easier, otherwise I don’t even know –”

 

“My boys were, too,” Mom says. “And then they grew up.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“You shush, Ryan Steven.”

 

“Yeah, shush, Ryan Steven,” Conor repeats, laughing. “The show’s starting.”

                                                                                                                                

He doesn’t kick Conor because Mom and Elizabeth would kill him if he kicked them trying to get to Conor. “Pageant,” he huffs.  The Nativity now, school does Hannukah and Kwanzaa and other stuff, too. The kindergartners have little parts – random angels, animals in the stable, sheep, all that stuff.

 

Lo is an angel, of course. With all her curly blonde perfect-for-an-angel hair, it would’ve been a waste to put her in an animal costume. The boys are playing sheep.

 

A couple minutes in, Elizabeth turns herself almost all the way around. “I think I see Sally on the right side of the stage, so you probably want to point your camera in that direction,” she says sweetly. Lizzie’s kind of a badass.

 

Ryan knows which sheep belong to their group right when they come on stage. There’s the one that won’t stand still. Ollie, of course. The one on his right almost falls flat on his face when he tries kicking him, most likely to get him to stand still. Charlie. The one who lets out a laugh during the most serious part of the whole Nativity is Evan.

 

The kid talking stops dead when she hears it, totally forgetting her line.

 

Somebody next to her hisses it so loud they can probably hear it even a few rows behind theirs and for the first time since they left the house, for the first time in ages, Ryan wants to laugh, so he does.

 

Conor puts a hand over his eyes and so does Lizzie, but she’s laughing, too.

 

When it’s over, Mrs. Jones will them have it – and the boys, too.

 

That’s so normal that it feels like things are almost right with the world again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On revisions, I’m incorporating some changes as I go along. For instance, the kids’ school has gone from St. Peter’s to a private, non-religious school called The Parkinson School. It’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, it’s just that the Catholic school thing was an inside joke on the olympickids comm that didn’t make sense to keep.


	33. finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then they’re there. Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title both describes someone’s sentiments in the story, as well as mine and possible yours over the long delays between chapters.

_Friday, December 21, 2018 – Gainesville, FL_

 

And then they’re there. _Finally_. If he were the type, Michael would probably cry from sheer relief at seeing the twins again, in person.

 

But for once, it’s Lo charging ahead, dispensing with her usual little-lady manners – the ones she only ever loses mid-tantrum – and shrieking “Dad, Dad, Dad, I missed you _so much_!”

 

“I missed you more.”

 

“I missed you _this much_ ,” she insists, spreading her arms out as wide as she can.

 

“That’s a lot, but you know how much I missed you?”

 

“How much?”

 

“All the way to the moon –”

 

“That’s _a lot_ ,” Lo interrupts, obviously impressed. “But I –”

 

“And back,” he finishes quietly, wrapping her up in a hug, careful not to mess up her Christmas show curls.

 

“Me, too, Dad,” she whispers into his shoulder.

 

\---

 

As Michael packs up the dogs’ supplies and then helps them each into their crates while Ike is talking to Ryan and the kids after the school show, the thought pains him, just like it did when it was Herman, but it’s true now, too: Carter really hasn’t got all that much time left.

 

They all took it hard when Herman passed, but Michael most of all: Michael who had raised him from a puppy, who knew Herman would always be waiting when he got home.

 

Though Stella was her favorite (of course, the only girl dog), Lo was also pretty attached to Herman, but seemed to get that Michael was even sadder than the rest of them. So she clambered into his lap to tell him Herman wasn’t hurting anymore because he was in heaven now.

 

Michael’s honestly not sure he believes in heaven or that dogs go there if it does ( _All Dogs Go to Heaven_ aside), but somehow it was still comforting. He hopes Ryan – and the kids, who Carter’s always fiercely protected, even now that _they_ should be protecting _him_ – will take some comfort in that explanation, too, when the time comes.

 

Well, that’s all of it. Time to face his no doubt rightfully angry mother-in-law back inside.

 

\---

 

“Hey, um, I know you’ve got to get on the road so you’re not driving too late. I’ve got everything ready in the garage, so I can put it in the car whenever you’re ready. If you want to stay in here a little longer, I can get started on that if I have your –”

 

Ike hands over the keys to her rental car without a word. It’s the Ike Lochte equivalent of giving you the finger.

 

“Great. Thanks.”

 

No response. This is going to be an easy conversation.

 

He opens the garage door so he can get everything, takes his time packing it all, the dogs’ crates last. By the time he’s done, she still hasn’t come out.

 

Well, he’s a stubborn fucker. He can wait all night if he has to.

 

When she does come out, her first words are: “Oh. Ryan thought you might’ve gone to pick something up at the supermarket. I didn’t think you’d be out here.” It’s a bald-faced lie, coming from the part of Ike that feels bad making him wait this long even if she hates his guts.

 

He hands her the keys and decides to go for bald-faced honesty. “No. I just wanted to talk to you alone. I figured this was the only way.”

 

“About what?”

 

“Well, first of all, to say thank you. For everything you –”

 

“I didn’t do it for you,” she interrupts. It might be the most hostile thing Ike’s said to anybody in her entire life.

 

“I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it, because you did it for the people who mean most to –”

 

“You did a great job of proving that.”

 

“I deserve that.”

 

“No! You don’t just get to talk your way out of this saying things that don’t mean anything.”

 

“I mean what I’m –”

 

“You know why I didn’t want to speak to you in front of them? Because this would happen. And I am not doing that to my grandkids. I’m not doing that to Ryan. I’m not.” She turns to open the car door.

 

“You’re angry with me. And you have every ri –”

 

Ike slams the door shut and busies herself with getting her seatbelt on and starting the car. She’s obviously about to drive away without letting him have his say, too angry to listen. But then she rolls down the car window and goes to town. “Of course I’m angry with you! I’m furious. You know how my family –” Ike always says _our_ , she doesn’t make distinctions like that – distinctions between the kids she raised and the ones who married into the family, so that one stings. “Has always treated you, how _I’ve_ always treated you, how I always trusted you with Ryan, how I supported you both before anybody else did. You know that! So you’re right I’m angry, because I trusted you, loved you like one of my own and you hurt and humiliate my son like this? You hurt my grandchildren like this? If you were so unhappy, maybe you should’ve just walked away –”

 

“I _never_ wanted ou –”

 

“I don’t know, a break, time apart, to figure things out, not done _this_ to them. This is so much worse.”

 

“I –”

 

“Ryan’s told me you are working this out, you are staying together. And I accept that. I support him. I want him to be happy. But if you keep making him unhappy, if you _ever_ make him unhappy again, if you ever do _anything_ like this to my baby again –”

 

Ike is acting wildly out of character, but he knows she means every word.

 

\---

 

“We’re only doing this because it’s officially vacation time, OK? When we get back, you have to sleep in your beds like always.” Ryan waits for the twins to nod.

 

Their backs will probably kill them in the morning because it’s a pretty crappy air mattress that they should’ve replaced ages ago, but it’s OK. It’s worth it. Michael’s chest feels tight when he remembers what Ollie said to him after they’d gone up to his room to check on his iguana.

 

\---

 

“Don’t make us go away again. Please.” Ollie throws his skinny arms around Michael tight enough to cut off his circulation.

 

“No, of course not, Ols. Never again.” The last two words just slip out; if this situation’s taught him anything, it’s that he maybe shouldn’t say “never.”

 

After all, he _never_ imagined they’d find themselves in this situation in the first place. _Never_ thought it’d spiral out of control quite so badly. Then, he’d thought the worst of it – and it had been _awful_ – was Ryan finding out and leaving. He’d never even considered it could get as bad as it did.

 

\---

 

But now – now they’re all back together and the kids need to know that won’t change, ever again. They won’t let it.

 

Michael wouldn’t have been able to sleep if he’d left printing their boarding passes till morning and then he just had to double-check passports and do a once-over of the kids’ suitcases. He doesn’t bother with theirs, because if they’ve forgotten anything, they can suck it up or buy a replacement. 

 

When he walks into the living room, it reminds him of Olympic Trials before Rio, after the team was announced and Ryan came back to the hotel with them before leaving for training camp, flush with success. When Michael was done showering and brushing his teeth, he emerged to find Ryan flat on his back, fast asleep, an arm curled protectively around each sleeping child. He’d immediately snapped a picture and posted it on Instagram.

 

This time, Ryan’s asleep, but Ollie and Lo are sitting up. Ollie’s half-heartedly pushing at his arm between huge yawns. Lo’s leaning over so she’s level with Ryan’s face and whispering “Daddy. Daddy, Da –”

 

“Bean, stop, he’s tired,” Michael chides. The air mattress dips a little as he as he sits down on the other side.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“And you’ll be tomorrow if we don’t all go to sleep now.”

 

Ollie yawns and pushes Lo to his left. “Move over.”

 

“Please,” Michael reminds him.

 

“ _Please_.”

 

Lo rolls over to make room. Somehow one of her pointy little elbows finds Michael’s side.

 

“Oof.”

 

“Sorry!”

 

Ollie ignores them as he settles in between her and Ryan and pulls up the blankets to his chin.

 

“Grumpyyyyyyy,” Lo sing-songs. “Ow! Dad, he –”

 

“Ollie, don’t hit your sister. Lo, don’t provoke your brother.”

 

“What’s pro –” She sounds out the word. “Provoke?”

 

“Do annoying stuff like tease him.”

 

“He _is_ grumpy, though,” she whispers, like Ollie won’t hear if she’s quiet enough.

 

Ollie just turns over to face Ryan, grabs more of the blankets and pulls them up over his head.

 

\---

 

_Saturday, December 22, 2018_

 

In the pre-dawn hours, Ollie is slow and sleepy. But it’s Lo who’s cranky to the point of tears on their way out the door to the waiting car. After the time they’d had just going to the vet and a school show, they figured they’d play it safe with a professional driver for the airport.

 

“No, let me gooo.” Lo pushes Michael away when he tries to coax her in.

 

It tears at him a little, not even a day after getting them back, even though he knows she’s just overtired.

 

“Just tired, Mike,” mumbles Ryan from his right, like he’s read his mind.

 

They’re both right of course; Lo sniffles and hiccoughs herself to sleep, curling into Michael as readily as she’d pushed him away just a few minutes earlier and doesn’t even stir when they get to the airport, where he finds himself remembering all the trips they’ve taken over the years.

 

\---

 

Pablo Morales might have been Ryan’s swimming idol. After all these years, Ryan might have mastered the stroke and distance that got Pablo a gold medal when he made his comeback in ‘92 so well it earned him an unexpected Golden Goggle this year. And if Michael hadn’t been watching Ryan’s Race of the Year speech the way most people would watch a car crash, he might’ve wondered that Ryan didn’t mention how much it means to him to follow in his childhood hero’s footsteps.

 

But the one area where Ryan’s _never_ wanted to emulate his idol is interacting with fans. Ryan feeds off it. And even when he doesn’t he grins and bears it because he doesn’t want to disappoint _any_ fan the way he was disappointed as a kid.

 

Ryan doesn’t take issue with a lot of things, but he’s never particularly liked that Michael, left to his own devices, edges toward that himself. It’s a product of having become famous before he was really ready for it – no matter what he _wanted_ – and jaded by the fact that while people didn’t care about _him_ ,everybody wanted a piece of him.

 

\---

 

At first, Michael started engaging more to make Ryan happy.

 

And OK, so he wouldn’t look like an ogre next to him. Michael was so used to keeping his head down and getting on with his business when he wasn’t making official appearances that it had taken a couple of not-so-subtle hints from Peter for him to see that that could be a thing.

 

But he started seeing it more Ryan’s way when they got serious about kids and even more when they actually had theirs.

 

One time especially.

 

\---

 

_Friday, January 17, 2014 – Austin, TX_

 

Attending Ryan’s first meet after the twins are born requires Michael taking a cross-country flight alone with their squirmy, cranky, perpetually spitting-up months-old infants.

 

The twins keep him up most of the night before and he’s pretty sure he isn’t just imagining the fact that they’re going through way more diapers now that it’s just the three of them. Maybe it’s separation anxiety. Outnumbered and stressed-out as he is, he doesn’t even look back after leaving a bunch of sad-eyed kids without an autograph or picture or even an apology for not doing either during their layover.

 

After the flight, there are naps all around and some relaxing post-race time with Ryan.

 

Ryan takes one look at him and starts on a much-needed back massage without being asked – a favor he considers returning later, until he remembers that there are professionals at the meet for that, Ryan will appreciate it more when they’re home and he can actually relax and let things lead where they may – brushing aside his protests, nodding and grimacing and agreeing in the right places, making him feel like he isn’t totally nuts to be so on edge and find their kids so much more challenging than their nieces and nephews. “Like usually there’s two of them, two of us and it’s pretty crazy. And today it was just you, MP. Like I don’t even know – just me and them, woo-ee.”

 

Still, the guilt about the kids at MIA starts creeping in. Michael always likes dealing with children best, is way likelier to go out of his way for a little kid than for someone older. So he almost gets his dander back up when, after some more sympathy about his “day from hell,” Ryan works his way around to asking how he’d feel if someone ever shut Ollie or Lo down the way Pablo had him. “Like my mom felt so bad because she was the one that was like, go talk to him, you know?”

 

But he tells himself Ryan isn’t trying to be a dick. It’s not Ryan’s way. So he really thinks about it. “I think you’re a better person, better to fans because he did that. So in a weird way it was good in the end even though it sucked so bad for you. But I’d be pissed somebody could do that to them.”

 

\---

 

For a long time, Michael reminds himself of that. He plays along because of that and because it feels like they’re a team. He does what he has to do to make it work, doesn’t turn his mother or Ike down when one or both of them offers to fly out to meets with them to make things easier.

 

If when it’s him and Ryan both faced with a crowd of fans, sometimes his attention wanders, who can blame him? He catches himself just watching Ryan and his heart hurts. The good way, seeing in action what he loves about his husband.

 

But then he starts to resent it. Anything Ryan gives other people felt like something denied him and the kids. _He_ doesn’t want to do that to _Ryan_ or the kids or to the other people he cares about like his mom and sisters. He starts to think that’s why he’s always held back more.

 

The kids get old enough to be wary of strangers.  While they’re babies, fans are often respectful enough to try not to be loud so they can sleep through their dads signing autographs and posing for pictures, but when they get older and more aware of their surroundings, they get agitated no matter how careful people are. It takes forever to calm them down after a fan-frenzy and it isn’t like Ike and his mother are always around to help.

 

And of course there are the times they just barely make a flight and the flight attendants make these _fucking famous people_ faces when they think the two of them can’t see. It annoys the hell out of him.

 

\---

 

_Friday, December 21, 2018 – Gainesville, FL_

 

Once they’re through the security checkpoint and in the terminal where the paps can’t get at them – he’s never been so grateful for strict travel regulations, even though they also mean he had to wake Lo up so she could walk through the detectors, they both breathe a sigh of relief and grab seats in the back corner of the seating area for their gate, maneuvering carefully so as not to drop a kid or a carry-on.

 

Normally, Ryan would be the one to go buy coffee or food or whatever for them while he sits with the kids. Usually, that’s when Ryan would be chased down by shier fans who might hesitate to approach when the kids are right beside him. They’re likeliest to corner Michael afterwards, while he’s showing the kids something interesting in the terminal – there’s always something – or on the way to or from the bathroom if he’s alone.

 

This time, Ryan doesn’t offer to get anything, just sits silently, focusing all his attention on their sleeping son. The way he holds Ollie a little bit closer than necessary hurts.

 

He’s protecting himself almost as much as he’s protecting Ollie, chin up ( _project strength_ was Erika’s principal advice to both of them; _keep calm under all circumstances_ was Peter’s) but eyes downcast, avoiding the handful of people in the terminal at this hour of the morning.

 

Michael wishes it weren’t – didn’t _feel_ – necessary and tries to ignore his growling stomach.

 

It’ll be better when they get where they’re going. It has to be.

 

Then he shakes his head and gently tries to extricate himself from Lo’s sleepy grip. It won’t if he doesn’t keep trying. He puts her down in the seat on Ryan’s other side, careful not to jostle her awake. “I’m gonna –” he signals in the general direction of the concessions. “Want anything?”

 

Ryan shakes his head, but he’ll bring something back anyway. It’s going to be a long flight. 


	34. time it took us to where the water was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where do we go? For Christmas?” They could just get a map and point somewhere random and go there, but they could end up in, like, Wyoming that way. And normally he’d be down for something random and crazy, but there are the kids. And there’s . . . everything else. And then he has an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Florence + the Machine’s “What the Water Gave Me.”

_Saturday, December 15, 2018 – Gainesville, FL_

 

“So . . . where?” Michael asks.

 

“Where do we go? For Christmas?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Um . . . so like the whole point’s getting away.”

 

“So international might be better. Somewhere we don’t need visas because there’s not enough time. And somewhere pretty private.”

 

“Like an island?”

 

“But not like where a lot of people go, especially not like bigger celebrities, because like, we may not be the highest priority, but if paps are already there anyway –”

 

“They might as well get us, too,” he finishes.

 

“Yeah.”

 

They could just get a map and point somewhere random and go there, but they could end up in, like, Wyoming that way. And normally he’d be down for something random and crazy, but there are the kids. And there’s . . . everything else.

 

And then he has an idea.

 

\---

 

_Sunday, December 23, 2018 – Crete_

 

Their suite’s got two bedrooms – one with a queen bed (turns out they don’t have kings in small family-run hotels) and one with two double beds.

 

“The kids can share the bed, you know they’ll love the whole sleepover th –”

 

“Nah, it’s OK.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah.”

 

It’ll be easier here. It’s got to be. Here, they haven’t got the ghost of somebody else between them.

 

\---

 

_Tuesday, December 24, 2013 – Gainesville, FL_

 

They have Christmas at their house again. Now that they’ve got the babies home, they don’t want to take the chance of getting on a plane with them, not yet.

 

Everybody _had_ to have a flu shot before Christmas, because they’re all right now, but preemies are preemies, so they can’t get the babies sick, no matter what. Everybody’s got to wash their hands or rub some Purell on before they touch Ollie or Lo and only if they haven’t got a sniffle.

 

Ryan’s so deadly serious about it all that even the kids get that he really means it. They follow a grown-up to the bathroom like little ducks behind the mama duck whenever they want a turn with one of the twins. They eagerly show him their hands because they know they won’t be allowed to play with the babies until he says it’s OK. “Look, they’re clean!”

 

The babies are so little playing with them pretty much means sitting with whoever is holding them and trying to make them smile. A lot of times that’s Debbie, because she guilts everybody into letting her hog them. “It’s not like I can do this all the time!”

 

Ryan’s family doesn’t mess with her. Kristin would because she’s Kristin, but Kristin gets to see the kids all the time and fair is fair. They know they’ll get a turn when Debbie feels bad for being a baby-hog. She’ll hand the one she’s holding back to him or Michael or decide to share with his mom. Of course, then Debbie makes eyes at whoever’s got the other baby until it gets handed over.

 

Unless it’s Hilary. Hilary makes stern eyes right back because she’s been fighting Debbie to hold babies since Taylor was born. (Michael was too scared of dropping her.) Whitney can out-guilt Debbie when it’s Hilary because she plays the “I’m _finally_ an aunt” card. Hil’s gotten to be for years and sees Whitney’s kids all the time.

 

But it’s been so long Ryan doesn’t even feel bad. He’s getting the twins’ Christmas PJs out, distracted with coming up with an excuse to pry one of their babies away for a little when Michael drops down into one of the rocking chairs, smiling smugly, their baby girl curled up warm and snug against his chest.

 

“How’d ya –”

 

“Mom had her.”

 

“Mama’s boy.”

 

“Pot meet kettle.”

 

“Gimme.” He makes his best eyes at Michael.

 

“No. I just got her.”

 

“You leave the other one with the wolves?”

 

“Hey.”

 

“You said it before.”

 

“Yeah, but they’re _my_ mom and sisters.”

 

“Meant all of ‘em, yours, mine, _ours_. Like Kris, hello? Dumbass.”

 

“Daddy’s so mean to me, isn’t he?”

 

“Don’t try and turn her against me.”

 

“She likes me better.”

 

“No she doesn’t. But Ollie’s gonna like _me_ better after I rescue him.”

 

Michael follows him back out, but Ollie’s pretty sleepy so Ryan doesn’t actually wrestle him away from Debbie.

 

\---

 

It’s close to the twins’ bedtime, so they get everybody together quick for _The Night Before Christmas_.

 

Last year, Debbie did it, like she’s done since Michael and his sisters were kids, but this year she hands the worn old book to Michael. When she nods, Michael sits down, clears his throat and starts to read. “’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring . . .”

 

\---

 

_Monday, December 24, 2018 – Crete_

 

“Another present?”

 

“Keeping up the tradition.” Michael takes something out of the box he just closed.

 

Ryan frowns at the brand-new copy of _The Night Before Christmas_. “Why? Where’s ours?”

 

“I got it for Ollie and Lo. Sent the other one back to Mom so they’d have one. I would’ve gotten one for your mom to use this year, but –”

 

“Gimme,” he interrupts, holding his hand out. There’s a message on one page, in Michael’s familiar messy handwriting.

 

_To Ollie and Lo,_

_The best Christmas book ever, for the best kids ever._

_Merry Christmas_

_Love, Daddy and Dad_

 

“Got that right.”

 

\---

 

“Little something from Daddy and me.”

 

Lo stares at Michael suspiciously.

 

“That’s too small for PJs,” Ollie protests, giving the box an equally suspicious look.

 

“Those are on your beds.”

 

Lo runs off to see them and Ollie follows more slowly.

 

“I never thought they’d turn their noses up at presents.”

 

“Prob’ly think it’s like a trick.” Usually the only thing they get on Christmas Eve is Christmas pajamas – all the kids do, because they outgrow last year’s by the next.

 

“Dad?” Lo asks a few minutes later, peeking out from around the corner.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Me and Ollie, we were wondering – how’s Santa going to find us if we’re not home? Are we not gonna get presents? Is that why you –”

 

“We sent him a letter.”

 

“But you said letters take a long time to get to the North Pole.”

 

“That’s why we have to write them right after Turkey Day,” Ollie chimes in.

 

Michael doesn’t like shopping like Ryan does, so he likes to have plenty of time before Christmas before the stores get really crazy. “We sent it express. So it gets there really fast. He knows we’re here. And Daddy brought cookies for him.”

 

“What about milk?”

 

“In the fridge.”

 

Lo sighs. “Good. I want my presents. I was _really good_ this year!”

 

“Me too!”

 

That’s not totally true, but they’re five and no kids would’ve been angels after what they’ve been put through the past year.

 

“Well here’s one from Dad and me you need tonight,” Ryan reminds them.

 

Ollie tears open the wrapping paper.

 

“Gator –” He doesn’t finish, because Ollie’s already handed the unopened box over to Lo.

 

“Ooh.”

 

Ollie and Lo jump into their bed without asking and they follow, twins settling between them as Michael reads. “’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring . . .”

 

When Ollie and Lo are totally asleep, they carry them to their own beds, because they need to put out presents before morning.

 

It’s weird going to bed so early on Christmas Eve because he’s used to heading out to Midnight Mass with Mom and Megan even now that everyone else’s stopped going. It’s not that he’s super-religious, it’s just something his mom likes to do and they’re the only ones that stuck with it. So now it’s his and Megan’s time with her away from the craziness of their family holidays.  

 

This year, his Christmas is much quieter, so he doesn’t need the escape. Really, this Christmas _is_ the escape.

 

\---

 

_Tuesday, December 25, 2018 – Crete_

 

Lucky for them, the twins are still on Florida time and tired, so they don’t get woken up till past noon Crete time. The family running the hotel is used to Americans trickling in every now and then for Christmas and not really _getting_ _it_ , so they made a point of telling them that they weren’t going to find an open restaurant nearby on Christmas Day like they had on Christmas Eve and that they were more than welcome to join their Christmas dinner. At two.

 

 

Ollie and Lo are horrified that presents will have to wait till after, but even without them, it’ll be close. Michael makes the executive decision that at 5 they’re still young enough that sharing a bath is OK.

 

If _they_ were on better terms . . .

 

Ryan shakes his head.

 

\---

 

The wife, Marina – she wants the twins to call her _Yiayia_ , though– stubbornly piles food on their plates even after they insist they have plenty. “You big guys, you eat more,” she insists. Marina’s husband and sons and grandsons aren’t small guys exactly, but you can tell she’s not used to anybody over six feet.

 

By the end of it, Ryan’s pretty sure they’ve left their 10,000 calorie days in the dust. 

 

After dinner, they make hot cocoa they’re too full and warm to drink and sit on the balcony overlooking the beach to open presents.

 

Lo’s favorite gift is Incredible Izzy.

 

They’d sworn off getting the kids talking toys after a talking doll Kristin gave Lo convinced them they were the worst dads ever because their daughter’s first word was Mommy, when really it was the doll talking. But _this_ doll was the number-one item on every little girl’s wish list their side of the Atlantic, so they pulled every string possible to get an Incredible Izzy to Gainesville before they left.

 

It’s been long enough since Baby Betty that they can deal. After all the crap they’ve put the kids though this year, it’s the least they can do.

 

Because Ollie’s easier to please, it had actually been harder to figure out what to get him, but hours of research later, Michael agreed with one of Ryan’s ideas. A soft board to teach Ollie to surf; he’s been begging to learn. He likes water _everything_. Ryan wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to try sailing or scuba diving someday.

 

\---

 

When they call Ryan’s family, the whole thing hurts. The tension, that the first time Ryan is seeing his new niece is on a screen from thousands of miles away, how earnest Dalia and his nephews are when they say they miss them and wish they were there, the worried looks his mom and siblings shoot him when the twins aren’t looking.

 

The only thing that actually makes him smile is the beginning of the call, how Dalia yanks a pissy Kristin out from in front of the screen so she and the rest of the cousins can sing them the most off-key version of “Jingle Bells” he’s ever heard. The twins join in and it’s only Lo that makes it a little better than cats yowling.

 

After the song’s done and the adults take over, Michael gets in a standard Merry Christmas that barely gets an answer before making himself scarce.

 

When it’s the Phelps’ turn, it’s uncomfortable for different reasons. This time, it’s Hilary and Whitney making themselves scarce, unable to look him in the eye, so obviously feeling guilty and embarrassed that Ryan doesn’t exactly feel what he thought he’d feel when he saw them again.

 

He tries not to dwell on it and focus on Taylor’s questions. _Did you like your present? I picked it! Do you have pictures? Did you go to the beach? Will you bring me a souvenir? Uncle Mike will forget._

Debbie swats her shoulder for that.

 

Ryan makes a point of wandering off before they’re done so Michael and the kids will get some time with Whitney and Hilary, but before he does Debbie’s “Merry Christmas” is so heartfelt that it leaves a lump in his throat.

 

\---

 

Ollie won’t get to try his soft board out tonight, but he’s excited for tomorrow. It’s too late to swim now – the sun’s setting and there’s a little bit of a breeze – but toes in the surf probably won’t hurt, so they head out and down to the water when they’re done with presents.

 

Lo demands a piggyback ride on the way down and scoffs when Michael makes a dramatic show of huffing and puffing after she climbs up. “I’m little!”

 

Michael acts confused. “I thought you said you’re a big girl.”

 

“That means I’m _mature_ , not heavy!” Lo says indignantly, swatting his shoulder. She sounds so much like his oldest sister that Ryan’s not sure whether to laugh or be scared, except she says “ma-tour” like her kindergarten teacher, so he stifles the laugh.

 

One minute the four of them are standing on the edge of the water and the next minute, Michael’s run in far enough that Lo’s feet at his sides are dangling just above the water. She yelps from the cold when the spray splashes them before bursting into giggles.

 

Ollie gives him a pleading look and Ryan doesn’t have any choice but to grab him and run in after them.

 

~~\---~~

_Sunday, December 30, 2018 – Crete_

 

The twins are playing with some of Marina’s grandchildren, so it’s the first time it’s just the two of them since they’ve been in Greece. They have breakfast on the balcony like they’ve been doing every morning.

 

They’re just sitting quietly, Michael done and Ryan eating extra slowly, avoiding a conversation he probably should’ve had already.

 

_It’s not going to come naturally or easily, but you have to try to open up some. You can’t expect to make things better if you don’t start trying to be upfront about what might do that for you._

 

“I went to see a shrink,” he blurts out when he’s one forkful away from done. “Before we left. I – like – just –” He stops. “And like she said like obviously there’s a lot we should talk about, like me and her, but like I have to do better at the whole communication thing. With you. ‘Cause like, all this, it’s because of that. So like I’m telling you. That I went.”

 

“Why?”

 

“’Cause that’s how –”

 

“I mean, why’d you decide to go see her?”

 

He doesn’t really want to look at Michael, because it still . . . like he _knows_ what Dr. Mills said, but it still feels fucking _weak_ to need a shrink. Like he’s a grown ass man, he should be able to deal.

 

 _But look where you’ve gotten so far_ , that nasty little voice he hates so much taunts.

 

“Because this is hard. Like this whole thing, it’s just so fucking hard.”

 

“I know. I’m s –”

 

“Don’t,” he interrupts. He doesn’t need Michael to rehash how _sorry_ he is. He’s heard it over and over and he knows Michael means it. “Sorry, it’s just like – like I know you’re sorry. I know you know you fucked up and you feel bad about it.”

 

But it just . . . it doesn’t really matter at this point. Like Michael can be sorry for the rest of his damn life, but if Ryan can’t get over it, it doesn’t _matter_. “But like that doesn’t . . . like that doesn’t make it better for me. Like it makes me feel not so fucking stupid about still wanting to be with you, but that’s it. It doesn’t make it easier for me to like get over it and move on.”

 

He really can’t get the words out right. “Like me, like not just dad me. Like once I was back home, it just – It was all so much. Like everything that happened and it was just – like if it could just be about the kids and making it OK for them, I could do it.” That’s what he’d had to do for weeks, because it was the only way to keep going and not lose his shit, especially when he came back, or like yell or punch Michael or fucking _cry_ when he walked by their bedroom door. “But if I stopped and thought about it? I couldn’t. Like I just . . . needed to put one foot in front of the other. And then it just – it got harder and harder to like _not_ do it like that, to try and like _not_ shut you out. Like it was easier. But it wasn’t. Because like, we’re never gonna be OK if like . . . we don’t actually try and fix it, you know? And I know that’s like _obvious_ but like . . . I don’t know, I guess I was just like not really . . . like I was thinking so hard but trying so hard not to think that it was like I wasn’t thinking at all, except a lot of times I was thinking too much and it just – it was too much. It was hard. And like – I know I can’t make it stop being hard, but like I want it to be less hard.” God, he’s _babbling_.

 

“And you think she can help with that? Um, you like her?”

 

“Um, yeah.”

 

“So you’ll go back?” Michael’s biting at his lip, that guilty look he gets every time they have one of these conversations in his eyes.

 

And Ryan . . . in spite of everything, in spite of how messed up he still feels inside all the damn time, Ryan feels bad for him. Because yeah, _he_ got fucked over, but that also means he can be pissed off and make demands and Michael . . . well, Michael just has to take it because he’s the one that fucked him over. So like . . . maybe he’s got to use that to make this better. “Do you think –”

 

“Whatever works.”

 

“Would you, um, would you go? Sometime?”

 

“Yeah, if you want.”

 

“Do you want to, though?” It’s a test and he knows it. It’s a dick move. It’s the kind of game girls played in high school. He knows the real answer, but he wants to know what Michael will _say_.

 

Michael bites his lip again.

 

There’s a pause and it feels like forever. He tries not to stare and make it even more uncomfortable.

 

“No,” Michael finally says. “But it’s probably like medicine, right? Tastes really shitty, gets the job done.”

\---

_Saturday, August 21, 2004 – Athens, Greece_

 

“Ugh,” Ryan groans after throwing back the glass of ouzo.

 

“Hair of the dog. Tastes really shitty, gets the job done after a wild night out,” his teammate says, clapping him on the back. “What were you up to?”

 

“The usual,” Ryan laughs with a little smirk.

 

Winning Olympic gold with the Baltimore Bullet is a story you tell the rest of your life. It’s the kind of story you tell till your grandkids are bored to death of it.

 

Making out with America’s golden boy when you’re out celebrating? That’s a story you keep to yourself. ~~~~


	35. darling heart, I loved you from the start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they catch each other’s eyes over the twins’ heads, he realizes he’s not the only with his head in 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Florence + the Machine’s “Hardest of Hearts.” Posting the final chapter in honor of What the Water Gave Me’s fourth anniversary!

_Saturday, December 15, 2018 – Gainesville, FL_

 

He’s surprised his jaw doesn’t drop when Ryan says, “What about Greece?”

 

“Like –” _Athens?_ Not to put too fine a point on it, but Athens is . . . significant for them.

 

“Like one of the islands. There’s a bunch, right?”

 

Corfu. Rhodes. Lesbos. (That had cracked Ryan up years ago.) Santorini. Crete . . .

 

\---

 

_Sunday, December 23, 2018 – Crete_

 

Their suite’s got two bedrooms – one with a queen bed (turns out they don’t have kings in small family-run hotels) and one with two double beds.

 

“The kids can share the bed, you know they’ll love the whole sleepover th –”

 

“Nah, it’s OK.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah.”

 

He can’t quite believe it. It’s a good sign even if it’s not like he thinks anything will happen, but he remembers the night they watched Short Course Worlds and hopes –

 

Before bed that night, they decorate the fake Christmas tree he arranged to have placed in their room, along with the ornaments they brought. They aren’t the ones they use at home because he was too worried they’d break on the way, but it’s better than no Christmas tree at all. And they do have their stockings. He hangs them, same as he always does – Ryan’s, his, Ollie’s, Lo’s.  

 

They eat cookies Ryan brought from home with hot chocolate Marina brings up for them while they decorate.  

 

The hotel might not be luxe, but it’s warm and that’s what they need most of all this Christmas.

 

He’s disappointed when Ollie and Lo climb into bed with them that night and feels pretty terrible, because they’ve missed the twins so much that all he should feel is grateful.

 

And he does. It’s the main feeling . . . just not the only one.

 

\---

 

_Friday, December 28, 2018 – Athens, Greece_

 

“Welcome back,” he says in an undertone while the twins look everywhere at once, eager to explore their new surroundings after a huge breakfast.

 

“Right back at you.”

 

When they were figuring out getting married and what they wanted to do after – some kind of trip, they were definitely taking time out – he thought about at least a stopover in Athens because it was where everything really started for them.

 

Then he found out the Olympic facilities were basically ruins and it didn’t seem like the best thing to kick off their married life. But in the last six years, the government started some public works projects for unemployed Greeks to get work and one of the projects was cleaning up the Olympic sites to bolster tourism.

 

It’s worked out pretty well and Michael thinks, superstitiously, that it’s not a bad sign for them either.

 

\---

 

It turns out the Olympic facilities are officially closed for the holidays, but Peter pulled some strings – the _would you really say no to_ Michael Phelps _?_ card – for them, so Michael didn’t have to do it himself.

 

So it’s just the four of them with a young guide named Althea whose accent thickens whenever she gets especially excited. “Well, you were _here_ , so you probably know . . . Maybe you remember . . .” But she stops respectfully whenever they want to point something out to Ollie and Lo.

 

“See, that’s where your nana was sitting with your aunts when I won my first gold medal,” Michael says once they’re inside the natatorium itself, pointing to a section of the stands, half-surprised he _does_ remember.

 

Then again, it’s impossible to forget that feeling.

 

“You’re gonna watch when _I_ win a gold medal, right?” Ollie demands. “You and Daddy and Lo?”

 

Michael just blinks at him.

 

It’s only when Althea kindly asks, “So you like swimming like your dads?” after a long pause that he realizes that Ryan is equally stunned.

 

“Uh-huh. And he’s _really good_ ,” Lo pipes up loyally when Ollie clams up, bashful for once now that Althea’s full attention is on him.

 

“Then we should see where the podium is, so you can practice,” Althea says conspiratorially, taking the twins by the hands and walking ahead of Michael and Ryan. Even though the pool and some of the other non-aquatic facilities are actually normally open for public use – for a fee – they also built a replica of the podiums in some locations so people could “see what it was really like for the world’s greatest athletes.”

 

“He –” Ryan starts nervously.

 

“I hope he doesn’t –”

 

“Like think we want him to or like he has to or like –”

 

“He’s so little, to like even _say_ –” Even _they_ didn’t have those kinds of ambitions when they were five.

 

But Ollie, shyly holding Althea’s hand, suddenly seems intimidated by the podium – unlike his sister, who’s already clambered up. “ _C’mon_ , Ollie! We’re getting our medals, hurry up! Daddy!” she calls from her position at the top, knowing Ryan’s most open to their make-believe games. Ryan’s got the games covered and stories are his territory.

 

“Go on, _gliko mou_ ,” Althea says encouragingly.

 

“Yeah, Gator, c’mon,” Ryan says. Ollie lets go out of Althea to take Ryan’s outstretched hand.

 

“Could we just –” Michael hesitates.

 

“Have a minute?” Althea finishes. “Of course. I’ll go wait in the locker room.”

 

It makes sense – she showed them around in the order that an actual athlete would experience the facility, so they’ve already been in the ready room.

 

\---

 

_Tuesday, August 17, 2004 – Athens, Greece_

 

Ryan Lochte is . . . _crazy_.

 

Like, actually completely _insane_.

 

Michael thought Ryan was a little bit weird in Long Beach, but now that they’re in Athens, he _knows_.

 

Ryan has no sense of self-preservation, ignoring the warnings from other swimmers (older, wiser swimmers) that he is _not to bother Michael_ before races, under any circumstances.

 

Michael has a pre-race routine that runs like clockwork. He sits silently – but with music blaring in his ears – in a far corner of the ready room. When he first started off, it was as much about blending in and not drawing unwanted attention to himself as about getting in the zone. It’s still mostly about that, even if now more of the faces in the ready rooms and locker rooms are familiar. He’s not particularly sociable (given his history, who would be?), but interacting with these people doesn’t make him want to break out in a cold sweat. He’s used to them.

 

He’s _not_ used to Ryan Lochte.

 

Between Long Beach and Palo Alto and Mallorca, he starts to maybe, possibly get used to Lochte. A little. In Athens, with a sunburn and hair frizzed to epic ‘fro proportions from the humidity, he’s even easier to deal with. Michael can look at Lochte and see _Lochte_ , not the popular, good-looking varsity athletes who were dicks to him in high school. He can remember that Lochte’s a goofball who’s more than a little bit – no, who’s a _lot_ – nuts.

 

And pretty fucking annoying. He swears to himself that he’ll throttle the guy if they lose the relay because he can’t let him sit quietly in the corner by himself.

 

And that’s when Lochte takes one of his earbuds and just . . . helps himself! And then _skips to the next song_. Which is one of Michael’s favorites. But that’s totally beside the point.

\---

_Saturday, August 21, 2004 – Athens, Greece_

 

Their last night in Greece is interesting, to say the least.

 

Michael falls asleep in the throes of an identity crisis.

 

And it keeps going the next morning.

 

Michael likes girls. He’s never even _considered_ kissing a guy before.

 

So why was his first instinct, after the initial surprise, to keep going, not push Ryan away when they were out celebrating last night?

 

(And when did he become _Ryan_?)

 

He wonders whether Ryan will try to play it cool, like nothing happened. It would be easier.

 

\---

 

“Yo, MP!” Ryan yells, running up to him as he’s walking to the team bus to the airport. His hair’s even wilder than usual and his sunglasses are askew. He pushes them up on his head. 

 

 _Shit._ Michael slows down enough to let Ryan fall into step beside him, because what else is he supposed to do?

 

Ryan stops short behind a knot of their teammates waiting to load their suitcases in the storage compartment. He scratches at his neck and looks sideways at Michael, awkward-like. It’s not like him, at least not what Michael’s seen of him since Long Beach. “Didn’t think I was gonna make it. Might still be drunk.” He puts his shades back on. “That _ouzo_ shit . . .” Ryan shakes his head with a laugh before handing over his suitcase and climbing aboard the bus.

 

Michael sits next to Ryan on the bus. He doesn’t want to come off like a tight-ass who doesn’t get that people do dumb shit when they’re drunk. That won’t help him stop being a friendless loser. At least that’s what he tells himself. “I know, right?”

 

\---

 

_Friday, December 28, 2018 – Athens, Greece_

 

“Daaaaaaad.” Their princess is getting impatient.

 

When he catches Ryan’s eyes over the twins’ heads, he realizes he’s not the only with his head in 2004.

 

\---

 

Later that night, when the twins are asleep, he says, “Not to sound like a douche, but I’ve been on lots of podiums and I think that was my favorite.”

 

“Mine too,” Ryan agrees quietly.

 

\---

 

_Sunday, December 30, 2018 – Crete_

 

The twins are playing with some of Marina’s grandchildren, so it’s the first time they’ve been completely alone since they got to Crete. They have breakfast on the balcony like they’ve been doing every morning, enjoying the salty sea breeze and the view. The quiet’s more companionable than uncomfortable for the first time in a long time.  

 

“I went to see a shrink,” Ryan blurts out. “Before we left. I – like – just –” He stops. “And like she said like obviously there’s a lot we should talk about, like me and her, but like I have to do better at the whole communication thing. With you. ‘Cause like, all this –”

 

Communication isn’t their strong suit.

 

“It’s because of that. So like I’m telling you. That I went.”

 

“Why?”

 

Ryan’s physically closing in on himself, leaning forward, shoulders hunched, fingers curled into his biceps and Michael thinks maybe he should’ve asked the question better.

 

“’Cause that’s how –”

 

“I mean, why’d you decide to go see her?”

 

“Because this is hard,” Ryan says bluntly. “Like this whole thing, it’s just so fucking hard.”

 

“I know. I’m s –”

 

“Don’t,” Ryan interrupts. “Sorry, it’s just like – like I know you’re sorry. I know you know you fucked up and you feel bad about it.”

 

Every damn day. It’s . . . good that Ryan realizes that, but it’s like . . . it hasn’t changed anything, hasn’t actually made anything better for either of them, let alone _them_. 

 

Ryan keeps going, starting, stopping, struggling with his words. “But like that doesn’t . . . like that doesn’t make it better for me. Like it makes me feel not so fucking stupid about still wanting to be with you, but that’s it. It doesn’t make it easier for me to like get over it and move on. Like me, like not just dad me. Like once I was back home, it just – It was all so much. Like everything that happened and it was just – like if it could just be about the kids and making it OK for them, I could do it but if I stopped and thought about it? I couldn’t. Like I just . . . needed to put one foot in front of the other. And then it just – it got harder and harder to like _not_ do it like that, to try and like _not_ shut you out.”

 

And Michael . . . he’s beginning to understand it. Well, he kind of did, but looking at it from the angle of a single-minded focus . . . he understands it differently. It’s like . . . Ryan compartmentalized their relationship as . . . partners because he couldn’t deal with it. He focused on the aspect that couldn’t be compromised (because _Ollie and Lo_ ), on the aspect that let him do what seemed best for their kids, that let him come home without feeling like he was compromising _himself_ , like he’d lost his dignity or self-respect. But everything going public cracked that not-so-little compartment wide open – not just for Ryan and for him, but for everybody and their fucking mother. 

 

“Like it was easier. But it wasn’t. Because like, we’re never gonna be OK if like . . . we don’t actually try and fix it, you know? And I know that’s like _obvious_ but like . . . I don’t know, I guess I was just like not really . . . like I was thinking so hard but trying so hard not to think that it was like I wasn’t thinking at all, except a lot of times I was thinking too much and it just – it was too much. It was hard. And like – I know I can’t make it stop being hard, but like I want it to be less hard.”

 

“And you think she can help with that? Um, you like her?”

 

“Um, yeah.”

 

“So you’ll go back?”

 

“Do you think –”

 

“Whatever works,” he says, honestly.  Ryan’s attitude, his admission of how he feels, his resolution to do something to make this whole painful, shitty rebuilding process easier on himself, on both of them, they’re all heartening, so he’ll definitely support it.

 

“Would you, um, would you go? Sometime?”

 

\---

 

_If that was all it was. The talking. If . . . I don’t know. If I got some good advice or something. It would’ve made it . . . worth it._

 

_All of this? Everything that’s happened?_

 

_No! I mean, sharing our . . . business with anybody else at all. But I – I didn’t even get that._

 

\---

 

They might now.

 

The thought of baring his soul to some stranger – yeah, despite everything, or maybe because of it – freaks him out. Especially when she’s already got an awful opinion of him, without ever having met him, even if Ryan tried to be fair – probably, knowing him – to him. But he can go one time. Once is the least he can do. “Yeah, if you want.”

 

“Do you want to, though?”

 

“No,” he says after an uncomfortable pause, honest again. “But it’s probably like medicine, right? Tastes really shitty, gets the job done.” _I don’t want to, really, but we need this._ “Like she’s right . . . about communication. Like I kept all these things to myself when I should’ve said something, and let it all spiral out of control, and I don’t want to do that ever again. I won’t.”

 

 

When he stops, Ryan just nods and gets up with his empty coffee mug, but Michael clears his throat again, and he stops in his tracks.

 

“One more thing? I just – thank you.”

 

“Mike –”

 

“Can I just –”

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

“You’ve been doing this, going to this shrink, because you’re trying. To do what it takes for us to get right, even though you’ve been through hell already, even though it’s hard, even though I probably don’t deserve it. And it just . . . that means so much.”

 

“It’s worth it,” Ryan says simply. “You. Us. We’re worth it.”

 

\---

 

_Monday, December 31, 2018 – Crete_

 

This year, the four of them learn all the Greek traditions Marina’s family partakes in.

 

Their favorite is the cutting of the Vassilopita. Like the roast leg of lamb that’s the highlight of the main course and everything else Marina touches, the Vassilopita is delicious. Michael has a feeling the twins will be begging them to recreate it at home.

 

The twins are rapt at attention as Niko tells the story of Ag. Vassili for their benefit, since his grandchildren already know it well.

 

Ollie and Lo were uncharacteristically shy the first few days, but they’ve warmed to the Antonakises over the week and are having a particularly great time, from the _kalantas_ in the morning to the card games Demetrios teaches them as part of the evening traditions.

 

Michael makes a mental note to teach the twins something more taxing than Go Fish when they get home, because they can clearly handle it.

 

\---

 

They also keep one of their own traditions – well, one of Ike’s that became theirs: 12 grapes for luck at midnight. It’s supposed to be 12 grapes in 12 seconds, the first 12 seconds of the new year, and 12 wishes, but Ike takes it easy, so they don’t _have_ to get it all done in 12 seconds.

 

Their first year at home for New Year’s Eve, Michael and Ryan actually did try it the traditional way and nearly choked to death for their trouble.

 

This year, Michael’s wishes are resolutions.

 

And all of his resolutions for 2019 are exactly the same.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has ever shown love to and commented on and read this story, from those who read the very first part on LJ to those who found this story after Rio, with especial thanks to the person whose prompt began it all, mugglemiranda, and who beta-read and brainstormed with me, and offered endless support in years past, and to redjacket for talking this story and this whole ‘verse through with me and being as excited about it as I am. 
> 
> Rest assured that, if you are still interested in reading, there is so, so much more to come in this ‘verse, including an AU ending/one-shot, some one-shots (or few-shots), and multi-chapter story – all things I’d been estopped from posting because I’ve been holding on to this chapter for so long. I’d strongly recommend reading my other stories before jumping into the stuff to come, because (what may or may not be a big reveal), they are all, in fact, linked. (This was something I never confirmed or denied back in the day when I was updating frequently for those of you have come to this story recently.) It’s very hard to let go of this chapter, but it’s never going to be perfect in my eyes, so I’m making myself say goodbye to it now.
> 
> Thanks again, everyone.


	36. UPDATES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update from the author.

Hello remaining faithful readers,

 

Since there are more people subscribed to this particular story than to my updates generally, I wanted to 1) alert you to the fact that I've posted an AU one-shot in this universe and 2) recommend that you subscribe to my updates generally and/or follow me at fyeahicygrace on tumblr for any future stories in this universe.

 

:)

**Author's Note:**

> The kids mentioned in this story may seem familiar to you, as they're part of a shared kid!fic canon from olympickids.livejournal.com


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